Darker Roads
by Morvan Morlanhal
Summary: In an alternative universe, Clark is raised by the very opposite of the Kents. Can he still find his way to being a hero?
1. Routine

Summary: They say Clark became Superman only because of the way the Kents raised him. In an alternative universe, Clark is raised by the very opposite of the Kents. Can he still find his way to being a hero?

Author's note: Yeah, I know, it's far from original. I just couldn't help taking a stab at writing one myself. Please read and review.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to themselves. Stop the character slave-market. Oh, all right. Not mine, just borrowed.

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Chapter One: Routine

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In the moment before Clark died, he gazed up the long barrel of the gun, past the heavy hand that gripped it, up the flannel-clothed arm and straight into the cold, blue eyes of his old man. Strange, how those eyes scared him the most. He should be watching the finger that crept over the trigger, that was slowly squeezing it, but those eyes --

"Go back to Hell, where you belong," his old man said.

The cold eyes flashed and thunder split the air.

Clark sat up in bed, gasping for breath. His blood was pounding in his ears. He pressed a hand to his chest, but it came up gore-free. Just a dream. He exhaled a long, shuddering breath and forced himself to calm down. Just a dream.

The thunder clap sounded again and startled Clark out of bed.

"Clark Keller!" His old man's voice boomed through the door. "If you're not downstairs and ready in three minutes, I swear, there'll be the devil to pay!"

"I'll be there!" Clark called back.

He stifled a yawn, stretched, and winced. He was sore all over after yesterday. His eyes felt grainy and hot. He hadn't had a good night sleep in years, but he couldn't afford to be tired -- three minutes were a very short time without super-speed.

He pulled on some of his old man's clothes, loathing the very touch of them, and lumbered about the room to collect his school stuff. Half a minute. He'd never make it, unless... Clark cast a calculating stare at the door. Being late was never good, but using his powers was a league of badness all of its own. Still, if he could avoid being caught _and_ make it in time...

He zoomed about the room, picking up school things and shoving them into his backpack. Done, with twenty seconds to spare. He slung the pack over one shoulder and hurried down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

The old man was waiting in the living room. Clark stopped a safe distant away and waited silently while that ice-cold stare probed him from head to toes.

"Jesus, boy, you're a mess," Marshal Keller said. "Straighten out."

Clark wanted to say, _Look who's talking._ He locked his jaw and said nothing, but he let his stare wander over Marshal's unkempt hair and red-rimmed eyes. He didn't need his heightened senses to smell the stench of old whiskey from across the room.

"Straighten out, I said."

Slowly, leisurely, Clark gathered the tails of the red flannel shirt and shoved them into the jeans. He'd long ago mastered the art of subtle defiance: the obedience that came a moment too late, the stares he kept locked a moment too long; the insolent postures, the half-smiles that mocked. It gave him a rush, like holding a live grenade in his hand and testing the limit of the handle --

He'd taken too long with the shirt. With three brisk steps, Marshal Keller closed the distance between them and brought up his hand. Before Clark could brace himself for the nausea and weakness, the strike exploded against his cheek, and he staggered back. The right side of his face throbbed with pain. Must have been a backhand. Damn.

"You start showing respect for your father, you hear me?"

_You're not my father, you sonofabitch,_ Clark wanted to say. Instead he glared at the old man with all the hate he could muster.

Marshal smiled and held up his fisted hand. The meteor rock that was embedded in his ring swam before Clark's eyes. The dark drops of blood that spattered it were sizzling.

Clark forced himself to stand upright and ignore the nausea in his stomach and the sting in his cheek. Subtle defiance. All he had left.

"Get out of here," the old man said. "Go to school. And get back here as soon as school's out, you hear me?"

Clark kept his silence until the old man laid his ringed hand on Clark's shoulder, and longer still, until pain and dizziness made his knees buckle and he stumbled a step.

"You hear me?" Marshal said.

And Clark said through clenched teeth, "Yes."

Marshal clapped him once and stepped back. With the effect of the meteor-rock gone, Clark gathered himself and straightened up. The pain in his cheek, the jagged cut, both fizzled away; only on the inside he was a mesh of scars and bruises. He hoisted up the backpack that had slipped to the crook of his arm and walked to the front door.

"And keep out of trouble, boy!" his old man called after him. "If I hear from principal Reynolds again --"

Clark slammed shut the door behind him and paused in the middle of the street. The old man sober at this time of day, and demanding Clark's prompt return? That could only mean trouble. Clark shook himself and began the long trudge to school. He had a bad feeling about this day.

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:: To be continued ::


	2. Nemesis

Author's Note: Yes, I'm writing very short chapters. Makes it easier for me to keep up. Also, this way each chapter is approximately a scene, which makes it easier to construct. On the bright side, it means many frequent updates (I hope).

Also, I've taken to name the chapters Smallville-style, namely one-word titles. It's more of a challenge than it seems, but it's fun.

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Chapter Two: Nemesis

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The one pit stop which he always made, no matter how late for school, was at the alley just outside his house. Clark kept a pair of black jeans, a green T-shirt, and a black leather jacket hidden in a water-proof bag behind a heavy grill (well, heavy for the average guy). He'd stolen them in Metropolis before his first day at high school.

It had become a ritual: every morning he would leave the house in faded blue jeans and one of his old man's flannel shirts, slink into the alley, and change into his black and green uniform. It was like taking on a secret identity. At home he may be the (reluctantly) obedient son, but outside? Better not mess with Clark Keller.

He super-sped as close to school as he could, but still ended up late for first class. At least it was Physics. He entered the classroom and walked to the back without as much as looking at teacher Bailey.

"So nice of you to join us, Mr. Keller," the physics teacher said. "I believe the bell produced its mechanical disturbance some time ago?"

Clark plopped into one of the rear seats. "I thought time is relative."

"Only if you're traveling at the speed of light, Mr. Keller."

"Who says I'm not?"

Bailey cracked a thin smile. "Einstein, for one. Now, back to our topic. The atomic nucleus, if so, contains --"

The class broke into disgruntled murmurs. Fordman turned back in his seat to glare at Clark, who answered with a smug half smile. The jock turned forward again and began scribbling furiously. A moment later, he tossed back a balled-up note.

Clark caught it in midair and smoothed it open on his desk. It said, "Off the hook again? Are you getting extra-corricular points for sucking up to him after hours?"

Clark snorted. He pulled out a pen and scribbled back, "No 'o' in EC, jerk." When _he_ tossed the note back, it was enough to make Fordman touch a hand to the back of his head. Clark ignored his answering glare and tried to concentrate on the lesson.

His thoughts wandered to Fordman's note, instead. Yeah, Bailey had let him off the hook, but it wasn't for sucking up. On the contrary. Bailey had once called Clark to his office to talk about his chronic tardiness, and asked him to bring his old man for a talk. Clark had gone Mafia on him: messed up his office, broke his phone set, smashed the window pane in his door. Since then, Bailey let Clark's chronic tardiness slide by, and let's see Fordman pull _that_ off.

The double lesson ended all too quickly. Clark tarried in his seat while his classmates filed out, and amused himself by staring at Bailey, who was taking his time arranging his notes. Every now and then the teacher would glance up at Clark, then at the knot of people who blocked the door. Was that worry on his face? Clark smirked.

Finally Clark got up and made to leave.

"Mr. Keller," Bailey called after him.

Clark stopped in his tracks. In the doorway, Fordman and a bunch of his lackeys perked their heads in gleeful anticipation. Clark turned back slowly, calmly, and speared the physics teacher with a narrow-eyed stare.

Bailey met and held his stare. Then his eyes flicked to a point over Clark's shoulder, and one corner of his mouth twisted down. He sighed. "As you were, Mr. Keller."

Clark let a slow half-smile crawl over his face and turned to leave. As he exited the classroom, one of the jocks bumped into him on purpose. Clark's instincts flared. The massive teenager toppled down to the floor, groaning.

A movement in the corner of his eye told Clark that Bailey was standing in the doorway. Clark gave him a warning glare.

"Did you see that?" Fordman demanded of the teacher.

Bailey looked at Clark, then at the felled jock. "Newton's Third, Mr. Allen. For every action there's an equal and opposite reaction."

Clark gave Fordman a what-can-you-do look and walked away. But he felt the jock's stare on his back all along the corridor, promising payback.

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:: To be continued ::


	3. Provoke

Chapter Three: Provoke

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Lana Lang suppressed an annoyed sigh as Whitney dragged her across the cafeteria to a small side table, where Chloe and Pete were sitting. She had a hunch what this was about.

"Hey, Chloe." Whitney pulled up the only free chair and straddled it, crossing his arms on the backrest. "Pete."

Lana waved her hello and remained hovering behind him, partly because there were no other chairs, partly because she didn't want anything to do with this.

Chloe raised her eyebrows at Whitney. "Oh, the Homecoming Court in the flesh. To what do we owe the honor?"

"I've got a story for you." Whitney leaned forward, and Lana could imagine the conspirator's smile on his face. "Keller."

Now Lana did sigh.

Chloe, on the other hand, just shrugged. "The day that being the school's bully lands you the front page of the Torch, I'll quit. He's just looking for attention, Whitney. Don't give him the satisfaction."

"It's more than that," Whitney said. "You know Mr. Bailey?"

Chloe cocked her head. "The Holier-Than-Thou phys teacher? No Metallica reference intended."

"That's the one. Well, this morning..."

Lana allowed her attention to wander away. She didn't like Clark Keller, and it _was_ about time someone did something about him, but Whitney wasn't out for justice. He was out for revenge. It bothered her for reasons she couldn't explain.

She looked over the cafeteria and waved hello to the people she knew. There, in the corner, sat the subject of the now-heated conversation, wearing his eternal leather jacket. He was tearing into his lunch with a single-mindedness that seemed, if Lana hadn't known better, bleak. How much of his act was a defense, and what was it shielding?

"Trust me, Chloe," Whitney was saying as he got up. "Your next headline can read, 'Schoolboy expelled for blackmailing a teacher', if not better."

"I'll look into it," Chloe said. "No promises. Bye."

"Catch you later."

Whitney linked his arm through Lana's and began to usher her to the other side of the cafeteria, where the jocks and their girls were sitting. For some reason, the unthinking nature of the gesture irked her. She pulled away from him and paused, surprised at her own reaction. It took Whitney two more steps to realize she had stopped.

"Lana, something wrong?"

Lana shook her head, half at him, half at herself. "No. It's just... You know what? Why don't you go ahead. I want to catch up with, uh --" she glanced around the room -- "Joan. I've hardly seen her ever since she left the cheerleaders..."

"Alright, baby." Whitney leaned in and kissed her, and she returned the kiss, because being annoyed was one thing, but she didn't want to hurt him. Then they parted ways and she joined Joan at her table.

They chatted over lunch about this and that, but Lana's attention kept wandering off.

"Tell me you're not checking Keller out," Joan said.

Lana's head whipped back to Joan so fast that her neck creaked. "No! I was just, uh --"

"Never knew you were into bad boys. Not that he's not hot in that forbidden, sexy way." Joan wriggled her eyebrows.

Lana pulled a face. "Cruelty doesn't strike me as attractive, Jo. That boy's got some serious issues."

"Oh, yeah? Then why are your eyes playing iron powder to his magnet?"

"I'm not -- Don't even --" Lana held her hands up. "Can we change the subject? I've heard enough talk today about Clark Keller to last a lifetime."

They did change the subject, and this time, Lana managed to keep her attention in check. Later, an arduous chemistry lesson and a double period of literature drove him clear out of her mind. Even when Clark got up and left halfway through Math, their last lesson for the day, she hardly took note. But when Whitney followed suit, the alarm bells in her head went off.

She fidgeted in her seat, trying to persuade herself that nothing would happen, and anyway, it wasn't her business. But it was. Whitney was her boyfriend, and if he was about to get himself hurt...

She excused herself and got out, ignoring the teacher's "Miss Lang! This isn't a railway station!"

She paused in the empty hallway, looking left and right. Then she heard Whitney from around the corner, saying something about rabid dogs having their day. A bad feeling coiled in the pit of her stomach. She hurried over just in time to see Whitney drop to all fours, blood sprouting from his nose. Clark was standing over him with a raised fist.

"Get away from him!" she screamed at Keller.

His eyes turned to her and widened in surprise; he lowered his hand and fell back a step.

"Lana, stay back!" Whitney pushed himself to his feet and turned to Clark. "You think you're so hot, don't you? Living above the law and picking on people for fun? You're no-one, Keller. You're on a fast track to nowhere. Four years from now we'll all be out there, leaving our mark on the world, and you'll be Smallville's resident drunk. Then we'll see who's --"

The sequence happened fast, and at the same time, each motion was clear and sharp. Clark's hands grabbed Whitney's left shoulder and pulled down; his knee shot up into Whitney's stomach, lifting him clear off the ground; then Clark pushed him away, spun into the space between them, and rammed into Whitney with two open hands. Whitney flew against a line of lockers and collapsed to the ground.

Only then did Lana's scream move past her lips: "Whitney!"

She ran over to him and knelt by his side, cradling his head. He was coughing and gasping for breath. Blood ran over his mouth, but when Lana freed one hand to wipe it away, she realized her fingers were damp with blood from his scalp.

She glared up at Clark. "He was right about you. You're an animal. You don't belong here."

Whitney groaned, and she looked down at him again. She wasn't prepared for the satisfied smirk that broke through the mask of blood; she wasn't prepared for principal Reynolds' voice which boomed, "What on earth is going on here?"; and when she looked up, she certainly wasn't prepared for the look of stark horror and despair in Clark Keller's eyes.

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:: To be continued ::


	4. Mission

Author's note: Thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing!

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Chapter Four: Mission

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By the time he turned to face principal Reynolds, Clark had forced the emotion off his face. _Blank wall. Give him nothing. _But his insides still twisted as if he'd missed a step on a steep flight.

"Fordman, nurse; Keller, my office." Reynolds' voice pounded like a hammer on coffin nails. "Now. Don't even think about running away, Mr. Keller, or I'll call the police."

He walked briskly away, but Clark lingered in place. This was no subtle defiance; it was panic. Reynolds was going to call his old man, who'd be pissed. Split and go home? Reynolds would call the police, and his old man would be furious. Run away altogether? Oh, God, yes. But then, when his old man would come home drunk and angry, who would stand between him and mom?

"Worm your way out of this," Whitney hissed behind him.

But Clark had gone over his options in life many a time before, and had already realized there _was_ no way out. There was only the lesser evil, which, right now, was to follow Reynolds to his office.

Reynolds sat behind his desk and picked up the receiver. His finger hovered over the buttons.

"Have a seat, Mr. Keller."

Clark remained standing in the middle of the office.

Reynolds lowered the receiver, and his eyes narrowed. "Have a seat, Mr. Keller."

Clark dragged back the chair opposite the desk and slumped down. His gaze flicked to Reynolds' finger, which now dialed a number much longer than 911 and just as bad. Then Clark settled into his POW routine, gazing at a point over Reynolds' shoulder. _Clark Keller. Unranked. Service number: zero._

It took his old man an eternity to get there. Clark twisted in his seat when the office door finally opened, and exhaled an amused snort. Marshal Keller was dressed in the Sunday clothes that he never wore on Sundays, his hair was neatly combed, and his cheeks, despite being sagging and veined, scorned the very idea of bristles. He even smelled of spearmint. _And the Oscar goes to..._

"Mr. Keller, thank you for coming," Reynolds said.

Clark turned forward again and suppressed a shudder when his old man stopped just behind him.

"Of course. I take my son's education very seriously."

_Liar_.

The principal nodded. "I'm afraid this isn't the first time Clark has used extreme violence in this school, Mr. Keller."

Marshal rested a hand on Clark's shoulder in an oh-so-fatherly manner. Clark tensed and clenched his teeth; his old man must be wearing the meteorite ring upside-down. Reynolds noticed nothing. Clark concentrating on not writhing, damnit, he would give neither of them the satisfaction. His world narrowed to the pain and sickness that washed through him, while flotsam of conversation drifted by.

"... You know how it is with adopted children..."

"... I can't allow..."

"... Already seeing a psychologist about these anger bursts..."

"... I understand your position..."

"... Just give him time. We believe in him..."

"... Very well..."

"... I'm truly sorry about the other boy..."

"... Won't suspend him, this time..."

"... I appreciate that."

The heavy hand lifted form Clark's shoulder. He bowed his head and gasped in some air. He would _not_ be sick in front of these two.

"I assure you," his old man was saying, "this incident will not be taken lightly."

"Good," Reynolds said.

Clark glanced at him without raising his head. _He was talking to me, jerk._

"Coming, son?" his old man said.

_You're not my father, you sonofabitch. _"Yes."

They didn't speak all the way to the car, and the silence pulsed between them like a warhead. His old man drove without a word. Clark rested his head against the passenger's window and gazed at the streets that rolled past. Streets that didn't lead home, he gradually realized, but damned he was if he asked where they were going.

His old man pulled up in an alley behind the recently opened Talon, and Clark turned to him in confusion. Marshal shifted to neutral, pulled the handbrake, killed the engine, and backhanded Clark.

"I don't understand you, boy. I asked two things of you this morning. Two things. Do you remember what they were?"

Clark licked the inside of his split lip, but even as he did, the skin knitted back together and only the taste of blood lingered. He met and held his old man's blue-eyed stare.

Marshal said, "Keep out of trouble and come straight home. Is that so hard?"

_Then how come you never manage it?_

"I said, is that so hard?"

_Fuck you._ "No."

"Then why are we here two hours after school closed? And why did I just have to save your ass again?"

"No one asked you to," Clark said automatically, and braced himself for another blow. It didn't come. His old man's warning finger hovered inches from his face.

"You get one thing straight, boy. Your mother and I took you in when anybody else would have let you die. We raised you, we sheltered you, we put up with your freakish behavior. But if you get me tangled with the police, boy, I'll tell all of Smallville exactly what you are. And I'll open a booth of giveaway meteor rocks. God knows I've got enough of those."

Clark swallowed hard and scrounged up some bravado. "What do you want, old man?"

Surprisingly, Marshal leaned back in his seat with a smile. "Time to bring in your paycheck, boy."

_So that's what it's all about_. Clark looked away, scowling. "I'm not stealing for you anymore."

"I don't care how you get the money. You think raising you comes cheap? You have to carry your own weight in the house, boy."

_So that you can waste it at the Wild Coyote?_

"I'm tired of having this discussion every time, Clark. I could have turned you in to the government, they would have paid me real nice. But I didn't. Now it's time for you to make it up to me. Get out of the car. Now."

At least this was an order Clark was glad to obey. His backpack came flying out after him. Clark picked up the dripping bag and slung it over his shoulder.

His old man leaned over to roll down the passenger's side window. "You're not coming back home without my money. And if you don't come back, I _will_ tell the people of Smallville what's living in their midst." The engine started with a roar. "It's your choice, boy."

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:: To be continued ::


	5. Rescue

Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews, guys. This has been one busy week, so I didn't get around to answering them (and let me know if you don't want me to do that, anyway). Your feedback is always appreciated. It also makes me want to spill everything I have in mind for this story, but I guess you and I will just have to wait... Stay tuned!

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Chapter Five: Rescue

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Clark left the alley and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. People walked past him on either side, skirting his personal space without slowing down. Normal people, going on about their normal lives. He'd never felt more lonely.

The tinkling of a bell and a warm breath of caffeine made him turn right. The Talon's door was swinging close behind a cuddling couple, but it was the white sign in the window that caught his eye. "Help Wanted". Clark's breath hitched on a sudden surge of hope. His old man didn't care how he got the money. He could work. He could do this the normal way. He could --

"Tell me you're not thinking about this."

Lana's voice made him whirl in her direction. She was standing in the doorway with a towel in her hands, and her face was a mask of hurt and reproof.

Clark felt the heat rise to his cheeks, of all things. "I -- I'm --" _sorry about Whitney --_ "Um..."

She shook her head. "Go away, Clark. You've caused enough damage for one day."

The blood drained from his face as quickly as it had risen. He clicked his teeth shut and strode away.

Her voice reached after him. "You know, I don't get it about you. Do you enjoy hurting people?"

Clark paused but didn't turn. "You're right, Lang. You don't get it about me."

Behind him, a male voice he didn't recognize said, "Is this kid bothering you?"

Lang's voice answered, "No, it's alright. He knows better than to come here."

The Talon's door tinkled shut.

Clark cursed himself for ever entertaining that wild fantasy of a job. The Lang girl was right, he _should_ have known better. He made his way out of the bustling heart of Smallville. From a quiet side street he super-sped to the outskirts of town, and from there, onto the road to Metropolis. Easier to make a hit where he didn't know the people.

His speed trailed off just outside Smallville, though, and he tramped along the cracked and pockmarked highway, kicking loose asphalt with every step. Why hurry when he didn't want to arrive at all?

The sound of rushing water grew stronger as he walked. Clark followed it onto a bridge and gazed out over the concrete banister. Far below, a wide river gushed and gurgled along its gorge, shimmering with hypnotic patterns of froth. Clark let its soothing sound wash away all his thoughts. A blessed calm filled his mind. And in that calm, one thought crystallized unbidden: _Wonder what would happen if I jumped?_

The whine of an engine dispelled the moment. He'd been ignoring any cars, but this time, instinct made him turn. A red sports car was ripping along the highway at a reckless speed. Clark had barely registered its bald driver when one of its wheels struck a pothole. The tire exploded with a sound like a gunshot. The car juddered, swerved away from Clark, and scraped against the opposite banister -- sparks flew and metal screamed as the driver wrestled with the wheel -- then the car veered back and slammed into Clark. For a heartbeat, he was pinned between hood and banister. Then the concrete crumbled behind him, and he tumbled down in a vortex of sky and river.

He broke the frothy face of the water with a slap that tore the breath from his lungs. Reflex clamped his mouth shut. For a nauseating moment he couldn't tell up from down, but then his shoulder brushed against solid rock; Clark twisted in the water, gained a foothold, and launched himself upwards.

His body almost cleared the face of the river before he fell back, this time upright and with arms outstretched. Two quick kicks kept his head above water. Clark gazed up at the bridge in disbelieve. The concrete banister looked as if a gigantic wrecking ball had passed clear through it. _So much for jumping._ If he survived being hit by a car and falling --

The car --

God, the _driver_ --

Clark doubled over and dived, searching for the red sports car. There, on the riverbed, a little downstream. He knifed through the water to the sunken vehicle and pulled up short in front of it. The driver -- Lex Luthor, no mistaking that bald head -- was floating over his seat, his head lolling against the side window. Was he even alive?

Clark smashed the windshield, reached inside, and hauled the young man out of the car. Trust spoiled billionaires to not buckle up. He hooked one arm around the young man's chest, kicked into super-speed, and didn't stop until he'd dragged the limp body onto the rocky bank.

Pulse, where the Hell was the pulse? Clark found it under the jaw, faint and erratic. The Luthor kid wasn't breathing. Clark had brought his mother to the hospital enough times to pick up the basics: chest compressions, mouth-to-mouth. The young man splattered some water. Clark leapt back, ready to bolt, but Luthor just lapsed again. Grumbling, Clark knelt down for another round of CPR. This time, Luthor began to cough and throw up water in earnest. Before the young man could open his eyes, Clark put everything he had into a wild sprint.

He took shelter in a clump of trees overlooking the gorge. From there he could see Luthor sitting up and looking around him, then up at the broken bridge. Even at this distance, Clark could read the mystified look on his face. _Hopefully he won't pursue this._

And why _did _he risk revealing his secret for a man he didn't know? Foolish, foolish, foolish. He always acted without thinking. He didn't owe the Luthors anything. On the contrary, the Luthors had once kicked out his old man -- just another step on the downward spiral that had shaped Marshal Keller into the man everybody loved.

No, if anything, Clark should have made sure no bald head resurfaced from that river. Or at least he could have stuck around and claimed his reward.

His reward, now that's a thought. The billionaire must be keeping some loose change at home, and the weekly allowance of a Luthor would sustain the Kellers for a month. And it wasn't stealing, not really; Luthor owed him at least that much.

Clark smiled in relief and took off for the Luthor mansion. The only thing that troubled his mind was the memory of Luthor's eyes, widening in surprise -- or was it recognition? -- a split second before he'd hit Clark on that bridge.

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:: To be continued ::


	6. Pique

Author's Note: This was a hard chapter to write. For those of you who reviewed the story, you already know that this one is from Chloe's POV. It's amazing how easily I can write my Clark, and how difficult I find it to write Chloe. Therefore, I'm very uncertain as to the quality of this chapter. Since I have no one to ask, I'll just post it, but please let me know if I'm not doing Chloe justice. This may be my first chapter ever to be scratched out and re-written.

Those who reviewed will also notice that the name slightly differs from what I've originally planned. Sorry. I can only be _that_ accurate in advance :-)

I'd like to take this opportunity to ask the Superman fans among you to do some good. If you haven't already, please help out the Christopher Reeve Foundation. Go to the homepage link in my profile to find out how. Because heroes still exist.

And now, for this week's chapter...

* * *

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Chapter Six: Pique

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Chloe dived into the Talon like a parched man into a pool and inhaled deeply. It felt like her first breath of fresh air that day. When God had been working on that perfect mixture of oxygen and carbon dioxide, he could have put in some caffeine, really.

"Almond mocha latte, right?"

Chloe grinned and turned to Pete, who was holding up a tall cup with extra whipped cream. "You're a life saver."

He winked. "I just know my girl."

"Can't argue with that."

Chloe took a long sip as she followed Pete to a table near the counter. Pete drew out a chair for her. She sat, and before she could wipe the extra whipped cream from her lips, he kissed it off.

"Hey," she protested with a mock slap to his shoulder. "Get your own coffee."

Pete grinned and slid into the other chair. "No thanks. I like my coffee black as night, strong as death, and sweet as love."

Chloe suppressed the quiver in her lips. "How very Caelum Vatnsdal of you."

The perplexed look on his face was priceless.

"So, um --" if she didn't change the subject soon, she _would_ burst out laughing -- "Hey, guess who I ran into?"

"Let's see, a former dog-breeder turned werewolf --"

"Forget it, you'll never guess. Justin."

Pete's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't be talking about 'Fox Crane' Justin?"

Chloe made a face. "What does he have to do in Smallville? No, Justin Gaines. As in 'The Flaming Crow's Feet' Justin? The best illustrator we ever had?"

"Oh, him." A silent beat followed, in which Pete's face hardened before her eyes. "Is that why you put me off for two hours?"

Chloe began to answer, but her words hitched on disbelief. She shook her head and tried again. "Pete, he was in the hospital for five months. He wanted to catch up. What was I supposed to say?"

"I don't know. That you have a date with your boyfriend?"

"Pete --"

"No, forget it." He made a brushing-off gesture that almost swept her latte off the table. "It's late, and I promised dad I'll help at the factory. I'd better go."

He leapt to his feet, almost knocking off his chair, and snatched his backpack. But then his body language always became bold when he was angry. Chloe sighed in frustration as he strode away.

"Pete..."

He turned with outspread arms, walking backwards a couple of steps. "It's cool, Chloe. Catch you later."

He turned back and collided with Lana, knocking a tray out of her hands, but he left without a word of apology. Cool. Right.

Chloe got up and took a rag from the counter. "Sorry about this," she said to Lana as she knelt by her side. The floor looked like a battle zone of broken cups and spilled coffee. What a waste.

"It's not your fault." Lana picked up glass shards and carefully dropped them in the bin. "So, uh... Trouble in paradise?" she said hesitantly, as if unsure she wanted to go there. Chloe couldn't blame her.

"It's nothing, just..." Chloe clenched her teeth on that thought. _Say No to emotion-dumping_. She grabbed the rag and began scrubbing with a vengeance. Then she tossed down the sodden cloth and blinked back tears. "Apparently I hurt his ego, so it's 'King of Creamed Corn has left the building'. Again."

"Oh, Chloe..."

Chloe sniffed hard. "Sorry, I didn't mean --"

"Hey, it's alright. What are friends for?" Lana got up, and Chloe let herself be pulled to her feet. "Come on."

They left the mess on the floor. Lana signaled the other waitress, Monique, to take over, and led Chloe back to her table, where the tall cup of almond mocha latte stood as a lonely monument. Chloe sat down and buried her face in her hands. She felt more than saw Lana joining her.

"Can I get you a refill?" Lana said.

Chloe looked up at the cup. "No, it's still full. Must be a record. One moment we were saying 'hello', and the next..."

"Well --"

"And why am I even feeling guilty? Justin was in a hit-and-run, for heaven sake. He's been through Hell. His hands are ruined, he can't draw anymore, and you know how drawing was his life. So we talked, and I lost track of time. Is that a crime?"

"I don't think it's a crime, Chloe. And I'm sure Pete doesn't, either."

"Yeah? Then why do I feel like Bo Petersen's band?"

Lana's forehead played a sketchbook to her confusion.

"On Trial," Chloe clarified.

Lana nodded gravely, but Chloe caught the upward quirk of her lips. She couldn't help a ghost of a smile, herself. She picked up the latte and drained half the cup in one long sip. Damn, she missed the aftertaste of Pete's kiss.

Lana looked away. "Listen, Chloe, it's probably not my place to say..."

"Say what?"

Lana looked back, and her face was radiating the resolute honesty for which Chloe admired her. "You know Pete's been in love with you since forever. Now that you two are finally together -- well, I guess he's afraid it's too good to be true."

Chloe snorted. "Mister 'Shaken-not-stirred'? Afraid?"

"You're a strong, independent girl. Pete admires that -- I know I do -- but he's also afraid to lose you because of that. I think he thinks he's not good enough for you."

"Wow." Chloe blinked. "When did you take an internship with Dr. Phil?"

Lana's smile slipped off. "Ouch."

"Sorry! I didn't mean --"

"No, it's okay." Lana shook her head and hitched up a new smile. This one quavered.

Chloe considered kicking herself under the table. "Lana, I'm sorry. I guess my defense mechanisms are jammed on 'shoot first, ask questions later'. I just hate it when my friends get caught in the crossfire."

Lana's smile solidified. "Well, faulty mechanisms aside, I'm glad to be on your friends list."

Chloe searched for something to say in the following silence. "So... do you really think that?" That was not what she'd meant to say.

"Think what?"

"What you said of me -- you know." Chloe looked up nervously. "Strong and independent?"

"I believe my words were 'admire', not 'think'."

Chloe felt the color rising in her cheeks. For someone strong and independent, that reassurance sure lifted her spirit. "Thanks, Lana."

"Sure. And don't worry about Pete. I'm sure you two will work it out."

"Okay. Hey, how's Whitney?" Oh, great going. That should have been her first question. Chloe upped the number of under-the-table self kicks to two.

Lana had risen out of her chair, but now she paused and settled back down. "He'll be fine, if you can call it that. Doctors say it's a mild concussion."

"What? That bastard!" Chloe quickly added, "Keller, I mean, not Whitney."

"I sort of figured that out," Lana said with a tight smile.

"At least Reynolds is bound to throw him out after this."

For some reason, Lana winced. Then she seemed to shake it off. "Actually, Mr. Reynolds came by to check on Whitney and said that he's giving Clark a second chance."

"That sucks." Chloe reached for Lana's hand, but she wasn't sure the gesture would be welcome. She snatched back her hand. "Look, for what it's worth, I'm going to dig so deep into Keller they'll have to exhume and lock up his ancestors. He can't do this to my friends and walk away."

"Yeah, well, obviously some people live above the law."

The Talon's bell tinkled, and an influx of people entered the room. Lana got up and smoothed her apron. "I'd better cover the counter."

"Yeah. Hey," Chloe called after her, though she wasn't sure what to say. How do you comfort the number one comforter? "Don't worry, Lana. We'll nail him."

Lame. Well, it was the intention that mattered.

Lana nodded her head. "Thanks, Chloe. I appreciate it."

Chloe stayed at the table a little longer, sipping the now-tepid latte. She was already drowning in work: the latest edition of the Torch was screaming for polish, she was way behind on homework, and Justin had asked her to look into his hit-and-run. But she was determined to help Lana, and the only way she could think of was to get Clark Keller out of their lives.

Looks like another late evening at the Torch.

Chloe picked up her things and waved goodbye to Lana. She turned to leave just as the Talon's door opened, and why-oh-why had she left her camera at the office? For standing in the doorway was a front-page photo: the co-owner of the Talon, dressed in one of his silk suits, barefoot and soaking wet, holding an equally dripping schoolbag.

:: To be continued ::


	7. Long

Author's Note: I promised a heavy one, so here it is. Don't you want to hug him?

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Chapter Seven: Long

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It wasn't until he'd breached Luthor's safe that Clark realized he'd lost his backpack, but by then it was too late. He simply bundled the stacks of cash in his leather jacket, which had dried reasonably during his super-speed travel. Enough money to appease his old man, not enough to instigate a major inspection -- that was the magic formula.

He traipsed back through the sluggish security (well, for him) and got home -- if one could call it that -- well before nightfall. His old man was pacing the living room. Clark ignored him and spilled the contents of his leather jacket onto the kitchen table. Like fresh blood to a shark, the scent of money drew Marshal to the kitchen.

"Took you long enough," the old man grumbled.

Clark shrugged. _Next time do it yourself._

Marshal's fingers sorted through the notes until satisfaction overpowered the greed in his face. "Not bad. Where's it from?"

"The -- uh --" Clark bit back the word "Luthor", which would probably set off an explosion -- "Alexander's Fishing Shop," he improvised. "In Metropolis."

Marshal grunted. "Stop going to that blasted city, boy. I told you, change locations." He selected a couple of notes and pocketed them. Then he snatched the leather jacket out of Clark's hands. "I don't know where you get these clothes. What's wrong with the ones I gave you? Not good enough for you?"

_As if I'd wear anything that makes me look like you_. Clark kept his silence, and after a moment, his old man's anger gave way to his thirst. Marshal swept out of the house and slammed the door shut behind him. The Wild Coyote would be making good business tonight.

Clark sighed and gathered the rest of the cash. He put aside enough for some groceries, and stashed the rest under the loose floorboard behind the TV set. As he straightened up, he heard slow, frail steps descending the stairway. He scrounged up a smile for his mom and turned.

People called Linda Keller haggard, but Clark thought she was beautiful. No one in the Keller household was exactly what he appeared, anyway: Marshal was a bastard masquerading as a gentleman; Clark was a freak in human guise; and Linda, well, Linda was an angel under a mask of lines and bruises.

She stood at the foot of the staircase, her faded blond curls trailing round her face, her brown eyes snared in nets of creases. This evening, the mask weighed heavily on her, and her warm smile only highlighted her cracked and swollen lips. "Hey, sweetie. I didn't hear you come in."

Clark felt his heart contract in pain and anger. "What happened, mom?"

His mom _tsk_ed and brushed it away. "It's alright now. Are you going out for groceries? I'm making --"

"Mom..."

"-- Tuscany Chicken, it's dad's favorite. I'll need some artichokes, mushrooms..."

"Mom --"

"... Tomatoes... Anything else? I want this evening to be perfect."

"Mom!"

"Hmm?"

She cranked up her smile, and he could tell that it hurt her. Clark took a long breath and spoke calmly. "What did he do?"

Linda tucked a lock of dirty blond hair behind her ear. "What do you mean?"

"Did he hurt you?"

"It doesn't matter. We made up. It's okay now, really."

Clark crossed the living room and stopped in front of his mom. He towered a good head over her. She looked up at him, still smiling, and the light shone harshly on her freshly-applied makeup. Clark reached out and ever-so-gently touched her cheek. It killed him that she flinched. Then suddenly she clung to him and buried her face against his chest, and Clark hugged her carefully, resting his chin on top of her head.

"Oh, honey." Her voice came muffled. "I wish you didn't upset him so."

Clark swallowed the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry, mom. I didn't mean --"

"Getting yourself in a fight like that. And these clothes. Why? Can't you see he only wants what's best for this family?"

"No, he doesn't." His voice came out painfully soft. "He's ruining us. He's --"

She jerked away and almost stumbled against the bottom step. Passion overcame her face; her eyes flared. Clark exhaled a frustrated sigh.

"Don't talk about him like that. I raised you to be a better son than this. What's wrong with you?"

The question struck a raw nerve. "You tell me, mom! A jock tried to deck me today, and I didn't feel a thing! A car hit me at 60 miles per hour, for Christ sake, and I just walked away! I shouldn't even be standing here! I --"

"Shhh, no, don't talk like that." The passion left her face as quickly as it had come. She reached out, and Clark let her envelope him in a hug, needing and hating it at the same time. "Shhh, it's alright. It didn't happen, you know it can't happen. Don't make up such stories."

His turn to jerk away. "I'm not making this up."

She smiled in that understanding manner that always infuriated him. "Okay, sweetie. Just don't let your father hear you."

_He's _not_ my father!_ But that would make her angry again, and he was tired of fighting with his mom. It wasn't her fault anyway, this whole mess. But as much as he loved her, just then, he couldn't stand to stay in her presence for another moment. _God, she's right. I _am_ a terrible son._

"I'm going out for groceries," he choked out.

"Okay. Artichokes and tomatoes, remember? And, oh, what else did I want...?"

"Mushrooms," Clark supplied dully.

"That's right, Tuscany Chicken." She made her way to the kitchen and began rummaging through half-empty cupboards. "It's your dad's favorite."

"It won't matter, you know," Clark called after her. "He'll be coming home drunk, anyway."

She didn't even pause. "No, he promised he won't. And get some ground pepper, won't you?"

He got it all, even the chicken, which she had of course forgotten to mention. At the local pharmacy he bought everything from Advil to Voltaren Gel. Then, on impulse, he broke into Nell's Bouquet and filched a bunch of lilies, and serve that family right. The spiteful satisfaction lasted only until he was halfway home; he doubled back and left a note on the counter.

His mom beamed at the sight of the flowers, waved aside the medications, and set to work on the supplies he'd brought. The small kitchen filled with gut-wrenching smells. Clark lurked there like a drooling stray until Linda, shaking her head in mock despair, banished him to the living room.

He circled the sofa round and round, keeping his distance from the plain door at the other end of the room. A sturdy padlock kept that door shut. The lock always amused Clark, who could easily break it and at the same time, never would: that small room housed his old man's collection of meteor rocks.

Clark sighed and plunked down on the sofa, draping his arms on the backrest and spreading out his legs. A quick flash of himself with fair hair and blue eyes made him leap up in disgust. The sofa was tainted with the presence of its main occupant. Clark brushed off his backside, just in case.

He drifted to the corner of the room and pressed his back against the wall. Its cool touch was familiar: the void against his spine; the inward pressure against his shoulder blades that made him hunch up. How many times had he fled to that corner? More than he could count. And then there was that one time that had started it all...

He'd been five or six years old, curled up in his corner like a scrawny ball of distress. His mommy was cowering on the sofa. Marshal stood over her, a giant of a man in the throes of a towering rage.

"I lost this job because of you!" he was shouting. "Always calling me at the office, always complaining I'm not home. Never an ounce of support --"

"Marshal, please, not in front of Clark..."

"Why not? Let him know exactly what you've done. I'm so tired of it -- I work my ass off every single day to provide for you two, and what thanks do I get? You care for him more than you care for me!"

The first slap jolted little Clark to the bottom of his soul. It was a flat, dead sound, wrong and scary, and what scared him the most was his mommy's lack of reaction: she just bowed her head and held up a hand. The second slap easily drove through that feeble defense. The third slap galvanized little Clark into action.

"Leave her alone!" he screamed, and he barged in between them and pushed Marshal's leg, and it was foolish and feeble, he knew it was, but at least _he_ was doing something.

Only it wasn't feeble. Marshal toppled back and smashed the coffee table, and lay unmoving among splintered wood and shards of glass.

For an ice-cold, glutinous moment, Clark couldn't move or speak. Then his voice came back, quavering and tentative: "Daddy?"

He didn't expect an answer, but it came. The eyelids fluttered over red-shot eyes, a hoarse groan spurted from the thin lips, and Marshal flipped onto all fours, shaking his head like a roused lion.

Clark backed away until his back struck the sofa. Mommy's arms slipped around him from behind and hugged him tight. She was trembling. The tremors seemed to travel through her arms and into his chest, torso, body, until he, too, was shaking throughout. And all this time Marshal was climbing to his feet, looming higher and higher and higher until --

He couldn't remember. Clark shook his head and pushed himself away from the corner and the past. He didn't want to remember. But that day had set Marshal on a quest to find an edge over Clark, and thus the Green Room had been born.

Marshal's presence seemed to permeate every corner of the living room. Clark turned on his heel and strode back into the kitchen.

He found the table set for two and his mom standing with a third plate in her hands and a pensive look on her face. She started when she saw him. Clark knew what was on her mind before she opened her mouth to speak.

"Sweetie, I was thinking..."

_Don't say it, mom. I have nowhere to go_.

"... Maybe it's better if you're not home when your father gets back."

Clark stood still, blinking back tears that had no business rising to his eyes.

His mom's face seemed to crumple with regret. "I'm just trying to protect you. He's so angry with you."

The ironic part, he guessed, was that she really was trying to protect him as best she could. Not her fault that her words cut him to the bone in the process.

"That's alright, mom. I'm not hungry anyway." _Liar._ "I'll just..."

"Stay with a friend tonight?" she offered with a hopeful smile.

The smile, the idea, were so pathetic that Clark almost laughed. At least, he thought it was laughter that bubbled in his throat. "Yeah, I'll crash at a friend's."

"Okay, sweetie. Just don't... You know... Tell them why --"

"Don't worry, mom. I won't talk to anyone." _Who on Earth would listen?_

She seemed relieved, and it angered him even though he knew it shouldn't. Clark walked to the front door and pulled it open. Outside, darkness reigned the streets. A cold gust slipped in and whipped the steamy aroma of food.

"Clark?" she said softly.

He paused in the doorway without turning, one hand on the door, the other on the doorframe. _Don't. Just don't say you're --_

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm really sorry."

He bowed his head and closed his eyes for a brief moment. "Yeah. I know." Then he squared up and plunged into the cold.

One day down, an infinity to go. But God, that had been one long day.

. 

:: To be continued ::


	8. Goliath

Author's Note: Sorry it's been forever. Life's ganging up on me, and these chapters are getting longer and harder to write... Thanks for your patience.

I do have a request to make. Please check out the search engine at goodsearch dot com. It's a unique search engine that donates a cent to your favorite organization for each search you perform. It may not sound much, but trust me, it adds up. And if you feel like it, you can choose to donate to the Christopher Reeve Foundation... Together we can generate a nice income for a good cause, and it's free!

And now on to the latest chapter...

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Chapter Eight: Goliath

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The absolutely last thing in the world that Matthew wanted to do was to wake up. He rolled over in bed and buried his head under the pillow (people moved in their sleep all the time). The air smelled of morning and bacon, and from downstairs floated up noises that made him groan (people talked in their sleep, too). Matt tried to ignore the busy commotion.

He couldn't ignore the knock on his bedroom door, or his mother's voice that called out, "Matt, you'll be late for school!"

He tried to say he'd be down in ten minutes, but the words got garbled between brain and mouth. What came out was "Unnng."

Unsurprisingly, it didn't satisfy her. The door opened with a quiet sigh, much unlike its usual creaking and banging. But then again, what door would act up in front of Martha Kent?

Matt felt the mattress dip as she sat next to him on the bed. Her voice washed over him. "What's wrong, honey?"

"I'm still feeling sick," Matt muttered from underneath the pillow.

Martha's hand, warm and smelling of apples and cinnamon, slipped under the pillow and expertly found his forehead. Matt tried to think of a burning stove, a furnace, a Kansas heat wave, anything to score an extra degree on that hyper-sensitive thermometer.

After a short moment, her hand pulled away. Matt waited for the sentence with baited breath, but it didn't come. She just left the room. Maybe he'd pulled it off -- the power of positive thinking, and all that.

The next knock on the door was brisk and firm, which meant dad.

"Hmmm," Matt mumbled, meaning "come in".

The door creaked open and thumped against the wall, then thudded shut again. Footsteps marched across the room, and the bed groaned a protest when Jonathan took his place on it.

Matt prepared his still-feeling-sick story, and the unspoken words tasted like bile on his tongue. He could never say half-truths to Jonathan without feeling like scum.

Fortunately, no questions came. As the silence stretched, a mixture of excitement and dread prickled along Matt's spine. It was going to be one of _those_ talks.

Finally Jonathan sighed. "Son, when I was in my freshman year, I was made captain of the football team. You can imagine how the seniors liked that. There were three of them who were planning on the Ivy League -- let's just say they made a pact to raze me. Fumbled passes, brutal tackles, the works. Came to a point where I almost lost my taste for the game."

Matt withdrew his head from under the pillow and looked sideways at his dad, who was gazing at the opposite wall.

"I didn't want to just quit," Jonathan said. "Not because of them. So one day I took them on." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Got as good as I gave and then some. It wasn't a pretty sight. And looking back, it probably wasn't the smartest thing to do."

Matt unhitched his breath. "What happened?"

"We got along after that. Not the best of friends, but I earned their respect. But that's not the point."

He turned, and Matt felt suddenly transparent under his intense stare.

"The point is," Jonathan said, "if I had walked away I'd have never forgiven myself. You fight and lose, that's fine, you can still be proud of yourself. But there's no worse defeat than just giving up. Matthew, son, whatever's got you afraid to go school, don't let it make your decisions for you. You're the one who's got to live with them."

Matt picked up his jaw. "How did you know?"

But Jonathan only gave him that '_Been there, done that'_ look. Matt sat up in bed and swallowed hard. "There's this boy at school..."

He trailed off and searched the familiar, weathered face of his dad. No disappointment or reproach there; the brown eyes sparkled with warm attention. Matt felt as if a dam had crumbled inside and relief was surging through.

"I mean, he's like that to everyone, but he's got something special against me."

Jonathan frowned. "Why's that?"

"I don't know." But what could it be except for his secret, the same reason he never fitted in and only had two people he could call friends? No way he was going to say that. "What am I supposed to do, ask him?"

Jonathan cocked his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Now there's a thought."

"Sure." Matt grimaced. "Will you pick me up from the hospital?"

"Look, son, I'm not saying you should go pick a fight. But that boy will always be out there. Are you going to stay at home for the rest of your life? Because if you do, I've got a list of chores…"

"Alright, alright," Matt grumbled. "I'm getting."

"Good." Jonathan clapped him on the shoulder and stood up. "Hurry up, breakfast is getting cold."

"Okay. Hey, dad?"

"Yep?"

Matt opened his mouth and clicked it shut again. Dad had knack for making things better, though by no means easier, and just how on earth did one tell him that? "Just -- Thanks."

Jonathan smiled in a way that made him ten years younger. "You're welcome, son."

Once Jonathan had left, Matt flopped back on the bed and thanked God, for the thirty-gazillionth time, that the Kents had found him. He pulled himself together and got ready for school.

A knot of boys was already waiting outside the gym. Matt scanned them furtively and breathed a sigh of relief at the absence of Clark Keller. Then someone punched him on the arm.

"My man!" Pete grinned at him. "What's up with you skipping school?"

"I -- um -- I wasn't feeling good," Matt said.

"Yeah, well, you weren't the only one. Hear the news about Whitney?"

Matt smothered a scowl at the mention of the name. "No, what happened?"

The arrival of the coach put off their catching-up. He unlocked the gym doors, and the boys poured in. Matt followed Pete inside, and had a moment of shock at the sight of Clark Keller, who was somehow already in the gym. In fact, it seemed as if he'd slept there: his eyes looked raw, his hair stuck out in all directions, and his crumpled T-shirt and black jeans stood out from the crowd of shorts and jerseys.

"What's that supposed to mean, Keller?" The coach was shouting at him. "If that's how you show up for class, might as well not show up at all. Go change. The rest of you, ten laps on the double. Let's go!"

Matt groaned and spurred himself into motion, falling into pace beside Pete. He listened avidly as Pete recounted yesterday's news, and at the same time kept an eye on the gym doors. But Keller seemed to have taken the coach's words literally: he didn't show up for the rest of the class. Matt finally relaxed into a routine of delivering passes and shooting hoops.

"So who was that kid you were staring at?" he asked Pete after the lesson, as they changed in the locker room. "You know, the one on the benches?"

Pete's face darkened as if seized by a sudden Kansas storm. "His name's Justin. He used to work at the Torch before you joined."

"Oh, that's right." Matt vaguely remembered having seen him once or twice. "Why did he quit?"

Pete shrugged and pulled on a clean shirt. "He got run over by a car."

"What?" Matt froze with his jeans halfway up. "You're kidding, right?"

"Nope. He just got out of the hospital. But I wouldn't feel sorry for him if I were you. He's already catching up on old relationships."

The venom in Pete's voice could have demolished a Chem lab, and Matt's well-trained sensors picked up trouble in Chloe-land. He buttoned his jeans and asked as casually as possible, "Was Chloe ever, you know, into him?"

"I don't think so." Pete slammed his locker shut. "I just don't like him moving back in as if nothing changed. We've got you now. We don't need another staff member. Hurry up, we've got Lit in five minutes."

Matt wisely kept his mouth shut, but he didn't let Pete fool him for a moment. This wasn't about Torch personnel issues -- it was about Pete's inability to trust whatever it was he had going with Chloe. But Matt wasn't about to bring _that_ up. Saying 'Jealousy' to Pete was a surefire trigger for Freudian denial.

"What's that?" Pete said just as Matt was buttoning up his shirt.

"What, that?" Matt glanced down at the bluish bruise on his chest. _That's where I hit the stair rail when Keller pushed me the day before yesterday_. "Just a farm accident," he said. He quickly buttoned the shirt the rest of the way.

"Aren't you ever tired of plaid?" Pete teased.

"What's wrong with plaid? My dad wears it all the time."

"My point exactly," Pete said as they left the locker room and headed for class. "See, if you want a certain dark-eyed girl to notice you, you should try a school-colors jacket." Pete looked around and then leaned in to whisper, "Or you can always wear buckskins and feathers."

"Pete!" Matt glanced around anxiously, but no one seemed to have heard.

"What? It'll stand out." Pete grinned. "You have to catch her eye if you wanna be her guy, Qaletaqa. Take it from the pro."

"Yeah, right," Matt grumbled. His stomach twisted at the sound of the foreign name. "I'm sorry I ever told you my secret."

They went into class and suffered through two hours of Ivanhoe, after which Pete declared a noble quest for lunch. But on their way to the cafeteria, Chloe intercepted them.

"C'mere, guys." She beckoned them into the Torch. "Close the door."

Matt noticed that Pete scanned the room suspiciously before turning to hug and kiss Chloe. He rolled his eyes and took his usual place, with his back to the Wall of the Weird.

Chloe was practically bouncing on her heels with story-mode eagerness. "Okay, so, I've done some digging on the internet, and I proudly present The Rise and Fall of Marshal Keller."

"Clark's father?" Matt guessed with a sinking feeling.

"The one and only. Well, except the biological one," Chloe corrected. "I'm still working on that angle. Anyway, the man's been through eight different jobs in the last six years. Everything from Luthorcorp to Hank's hardware store. He got kicked out of each and every one of them. And I'm only talking about official, tax-reported jobs."

"So the man's a lousy worker," Pete said with a shrug. "Like son, like father."

"It's more than that." Chloe typed a flurry of commands on her keyboard, pulling up screen after screen. "See, he's been unemployed over three years now. But he bought a new house only fourteen years ago, so he's still paying mortgage. And there are no claims on the house, so he's still paying it. How can that be?"

"Maybe he has some savings," Matt said.

Chloe brushed away the idea. "With his working habits? Slim chance. Besides, it's not just that. Two years ago he bought a new car. How does an unemployed man pull that off?"

Matt mind turned to his parent's beat-up truck and then to the spark in Chloe's eyes. "What are you saying here, Chloe?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Pete said. "The man's a crook. Wherever he's getting his bucks, it's gotta be illegal."

Chloe spread out her hands as if resting her case.

"Hold on, guys," Matt said. "That's a serious accusation. Do we have the facts to back it up?"

"Not yet," Chloe admitted. "But I'll find them."

"I can ask my mum if they have something on him," Pete offered eagerly.

Chloe nodded. "Good idea. I had my contact check some police files, but he only came up with a bunch of DUIs."

"He?" Pete pointedly asked.

"Listen," Matt injected before Pete could dig a new hole for himself. "I'm not sure about this. Getting at Clark by digging up dirt on his dad? Isn't it a little..."

"A little what?" Chloe flared up. "Matt, if Marshal is a criminal, the only ethical thing we can do is to expose him. Besides, whatever it is, I have a feeling Keller Jr. is involved as much as his father."

Matt pursed his lips, but the scenario that Chloe presented was not beyond even tame imagination. Then why was he uncomfortable with it? He avoided Chloe's expectant stare and let his gaze wonder over the office. His eyes fell on a vaguely familiar, woe-begone backpack in the corner.

"Isn't that Keller's school bag?" he asked.

"What?" Chloe looked into the corner. "Oh, yeah. I convinced Lex to hand it over in return for the owner's name."

"Lex," Matt said dazedly. "As in Lex Luthor? Why would Lex Luthor be interested in a high school bully?"

Chloe gave her smug scoop-smile. "Well, apparently..."

As Chloe related the story of Luthor's brush with death, Matt had to forcefully keep his jaw shut. Finally he said, "Who'd have thought Keller could actually do some good?"

"Yeah, but why run away?" Pete countered. "He left the man half-drowned and stranded in the middle of nowhere. Not your ordinary Ivanhoe. What's in the bag?"

"Pete..." Matt protested uneasily. "It's his personal stuff."

Chloe retrieved the bag from the corner. "The day he starts respecting others, I'll start respecting him," she said, opening the bag and handing it to Pete. "Nothing interesting there, just a couple of wet books."

"I didn't even know he could read." Pete peered inside and whistled. "Wow. Geology and Advanced Biophysics. Not your average comic books."

"Not what you'd expect from a dim-witted bully," Matt said quietly, and his uneasiness ratcheted up.

"Nah, he's probably carrying these around to impress the girls," Pete said with a smirk. "Or to stop some heavy doors."

Matt snatched the bag and zipped it shut. It weighed heavily in his hand. "Look, we should give it back to him. We can't just keep it."

Chloe opened her mouth to speak, clicked it shut again, and shook her head. "Fine, if you're so anxious to play boy scout, go give it back."

"Fine," Matt said irritably. "I will."

"Fine."

Matt got up and made for the door, but Pete caught him by the arm. "Wow, what is this, some suicide pact? Last time I checked, you weren't all buddies with Badass Keller."

Matt pulled free and left the Torch. "I don't have to be," he said over his shoulder to Pete and Chloe, who followed him outside. "I'll just tell him --"

The startled change in their faces made him turn forward again. The sight of Clark Keller made him stop in his tracks. The taller boy was staring intently not at Matt, but at his own bag which was clasped in Matt's hand. Matt wanted to offer it, but his body seemed to have frozen. He couldn't tear his eyes from Keller's hard face, where a dark storm smoldered in the drawn eyebrows and charged eyes.

Clark's movement broke the spell. Matt held out the bag and began to speak, but before the first word left his mouth, Clark had closed the distance, wrenched his bag out of Matt's grasp, and pushed past. Something tinkled. Matt staggered and fell. His hand burned, and when he looked down, he saw blood streaking his palm. He gazed at the red smears with a sickening mixture of shock and helplessness.

"Dammit, Keller!" Chloe's voice rung out in the hall. "You're a third-rate jerk, you know that?"

"Chloe..." Pete's voice came low and urgent.

Matt looked up. Clark had stopped and turned to face Chloe, who was looking furious. The entire student-packed hallway seemed to be holding its breath. Pete was holding Chloe's arm, but she seemed not to feel it.

"He was going to give it back to you," she said. "I told him not to bother, but Matthew Kent is as decent as they get. And of all people you decide to pick on him?"

Matt scrambled to his feet, partly because he couldn't just sit there with Chloe defending him, partly because Clark was quietly advancing on her.

"What, you're gonna beat me too?" Chloe said with a sneer. "Oooh, big man on campus. Do you even know any ways other than brute force?"

"Chloe," Pete muttered on her right.

"Pete, someone's got to stand up to him," Chloe said loudly.

_Yeah, me_, Matt thought grimly. He positioned himself half a step before her, and Pete did the same on right. Keller advanced until he was just pressing into their combined efforts to ward him off. Matt was hyperventilating. Keller wasn't even breathing hard, and Matt knew they couldn't stop him if he decided to break through. _So this is how it feels to push against death..._

"I know about your father," Chloe said.

Straining to hold Keller back, Matt had a close view of the boy's face and the strange emotions that flashed there: surprise, naturally, but hope? And then cold suspicion again. Matt felt fear rising in the back of his throat.

Chloe seemed oblivious. "I'm going to expose him," she continued, "and you're going down with him."

Clark's lips twisted in a half-smile. "Do you really think you can manage that, Sullivan?"

Matt sensed Chloe squaring up between them. "Watch me."

Clark leaned in, and Matt pushed back. It was like trying to budge a mountain. Pete was grunting on his right, but their combined efforts couldn't hold Keller back. Chloe held her ground.

But all Keller did was smile, a sharp, savage smile that chilled Matt to his soul. "I dare you, Sullivan," he said. Then he turned and walked away, as abruptly as that, and Matt and Pete lurched forward.

"Damn," Pete said after a while. "Chloe, I love you to pieces, but you're gonna get me killed one of these days."

A surprisingly shaky sigh escaped Chloe. "I know, I know. I'm sorry. I just couldn't let it pass. You okay, Matt?"

Matt glanced at his palm and back at Chloe. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said dully. "I just can't help thinking that I should have done the talking."

"Oh, puh-leeze." Chloe huffed. "I just shot my mouth off, as usual. I shouldn't have said anything, he'll be twice as careful now. But I swear I'll get him. 'I dare you, Sullivan'," she mimicked. "He's so asking for it."

Pete grinned and led Chloe away, and Matt gestured them to go on without him. The unexpected emotions on Keller face had disturbed him more than he was willing to admit. What had just happened? Matt shook his head. Never mind. The point was, he had let fear paralyze him, and disappointed both himself and his dad. Again.

He was just heading for the next class when a shiny flash caught his eye. He knelt next to a closed classroom door and picked up a pair of small keys, which someone must have kicked there. He recognized the shape all too well. Locker keys. He had a bad feeling about to whom they belonged.

_Oh, crap, not again._ He was done trying to return things to Keller.

_Unless_... A reporter's voice spoke in his mind, sounding suspiciously like Chloe. _We do need cold, hard proof._

He skived off Chemistry, waited until everyone got into their classes, and located Keller's locker. The keys fit in, but Matt hesitated a long moment. He knew it was wrong. _On the other hand, look where being right had gotten me._ And he had a hunch he would find some evidence in that locker -- drugs, stacks of paper money, the blueprints of Smallville Savings and Loans -- something that would give them some insight into Clark Keller's operation. Whatever it was, it could be their best chance.

Chloe would agree.

Pete would agree.

(Jonathan wouldn't.)

"Come on, Qaletaqa," he muttered.

He took a deep breath and opened the locker, feeling lousy even before he looked inside. Feeling much worse once he did look. The locker held nothing personal -- no pictures, no adornments, no handwritten notes -- nothing but a stack of books. Before Matt could undo his actions, their titles jumped out at him: "Why Does He Do That", "Helping Her Get Free", "The Psychology of the Abused".

Matt slammed the locker shut and fell back, sickened by his blatant trespassing. The sound of footsteps came from around the corner. If that was Keller...

Matt hurried away, clueless as to where 'away' was or what to do once he got there.

.

:: To be continued ::


	9. Hate

Author's Note: Okay, guys, this one's dark, so hang on in there. Light at the end of the tunnel, and all that. I promise things will get better soon.

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. 

Chapter Nine: Hate

By mid-afternoon, Clark was feeling sub-human: tired, disheveled, hungry, and restless. The face-off with the Sullivan girl had rattled him more than he was willing to admit. _'I know about your father'_, she'd said, and for one heartbeat of desperate, unlikely hope, Clark had been grateful. That was before he'd realized she was accusing him, too. He'd goaded her on because at that point, he didn't mind going to Hell if he could drag his old man down with him.

But he couldn't concentrate afterwards. He got thrown out of two classes in a row. The librarian fined him for ruining the two books in his bag, and blacklisted him for a month. And to top it all, he'd lost the keys to his locker and then found them sticking from the lock, which meant someone had gone through his stuff.

Looking back, he should have roughed up Matthew Kent a lot worse.

"Mr. Keller!" The call reached after him as he walked down an empty hallway.

Clark stopped and closed his eyes. _Now what?_ All he wanted was to get home, crawl inside unnoticed, take a quick shower, and curl up in bed. He opened his eyes and slowly turned. Bailey, the Physics teacher, was looking at him from the doorway of his office.

"Can I see you inside?" Bailey said. "Please?"

Heaving an internal sigh, Clark readjusted the bag on his shoulder and entered Bailey's office. The place had been restored and cleaned up since his last visit. The phone-set on the table was brand new.

The Phys teacher walked around the desk and sat down, gesturing for Clark to take the other seat. Clark remained standing with well-practiced contempt. He had to fight down a déjà-vu of his visit to Reynolds' office.

"I wanted to talk to you yesterday after class," Bailey said. "But the circumstances were... inappropriate."

Clark shrugged one shoulder. "Last time I was in here --"

"Yes, I know, you wreaked havoc on my office," Bailey said with the faintest of smiles. "I remember."

"Then what do you want?"

Clark saw the teacher's Adam's apple bob, as if he was bracing himself for something. Clark hoped his courage would fail. He was too tired to trash the place again.

"I wanted," Bailey said firmly, "to ask how you're doing."

"You -- what?"

"Just that," the teacher said. "I doubt the signal was distorted."

"Well, I'm fine," Clark said forcefully. "And it's not your business anyway. Can I go now?"

Bailey made a sweeping gesture at the door, and Clark turned to leave. He could only mask confusion with anger for that long.

" Clark," Bailey called after him quietly. "I -- that is --"

Clark waited. He'd never heard Bailey stammer before.

"I want you to know this office is always open to you," Bailey finally said. "If you ever want to burrow a book, or just take a moment off, or, well, talk to someone."

Clark's insides went cold. What was Bailey saying? Did he know? How much did he know? God, that offer sounded tempting. Too tempting. Dangerous.

"A librarian, a hotel manager, and a counselor all in one," Clark said with all the scorn he could muster. "I'd stick to teaching, if I were you."

He left before Bailey could reply, but he only got as far as the next hallway. There he stopped and buried his head against the wall. _Coward. Why did you say no?_ Bailey had offered him the one thing he'd wanted the most. Now that bridge was burned.

Never mind. It was probably a trap, anyway. If Clark had spilled his guts, Bailey would have waved it aside, or called his old man, or done nothing at all. It wouldn't have made any difference.

Consoled by that thought, Clark cut out of school and made his way home. At least the day was almost over. He doubted it could get much worse.

Outside the house, he eyed his second-storey window and wished he could just jump up there. But then again, he was enough of a freak without being able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Normal people used the front door. He wasn't normal, but he used the front door anyway.

He found the kitchen mercifully empty. Clark glanced into the living room and saw his old man slumped on the sofa, open-mouthed and snoring. The stench of alcohol lingered on the air like cheap perfume, making Clark gag. He quickly stole upstairs, opened his room, and dumped his empty schoolbag inside. The unmade bed beckoned him, an invitation to oblivion. He could always take the shower later.

But first things first.

Clark tiptoed outside and softly scratched his parents' bedroom door. It was a signal he'd learned to make years ago, because it rarely woke his old man, but his mom usually picked it up.

"Just a second, hon," her whisper sneaked out.

Clark heard her moving around the room fervently. Then the door eased ajar, and through the crack appeared Linda's unkempt hair, worn half-smile, and tired eye. "Hi sweetie. You're home early."

Clark shrugged uncomfortably. "Class got canceled," he whispered back.

"That's good, that's good." Linda's smile trailed off in distraction, then came back. "You're going to rest, dear?"

"Yeah. How was last night?"

"It was lovely. The chicken was great. Sorry I couldn't save some for you."

It occurred to Clark that she was hardly moving her head, so that the left side of her face remained hidden behind the door. The nagging doubt in his stomach solidified to certainty.

"Mom, open the door."

"Oh, I can't. I just threw something on --"

"Open the door, mom."

He pushed gently against the wooden surface, and saw panic blossom on Linda's face as she pushed back. Slowly, careful not to hurt her, he increased the pressure. Linda stumbled back. Clark stopped the door before it caught up with her, and entered the room.

And wished he hadn't.

The left side of Linda's face was purple and swollen, as he'd suspected, but he hadn't anticipated the cuts on her forehead, or the way her left arm hung limp at her side. The robe she'd thrown on had parted in their fight for the door, and she quickly hitched it close, but Clark glimpsed the newly-charted map of abuse on her ribs.

They stood gazing at each other a long moment. Clark felt a tidal wave of rage building inside him. Linda's eyes were pleading.

"Honey, you don't understand --"

"I'm gonna kill him," Clark said quietly.

He turned on his heel and stomped downstairs, heedless of the thunderous noise. His mom's frantic, whispered "No!" chased him down.

" Clark?" His old man voice grated on the air, slow and slurred. "'That you?"

Clark entered the living room to find Marshal already wobbling on his feet. Before his old man could bring up his ring-protected hand, Clark channeled all his strength into a right hook.

"Marshal!" Linda screamed from the staircase.

The tall man flew into the couch, knocked it backwards, and rolled onto the floor. Clark glared at him, panting. He'd meant to throw him clear through the wall, but entering Marshal's personal space had cut off his strength. The first tendrils of nausea uncurled in his stomach. Even now the old man was fumbling inside his shirt pocket, and Clark wasn't surprised when he retrieved a chunk of meteor rock.

Marshal climbed to his feet, holding up the rock. "You try that again and you're dead," he rasped.

Linda's frail voice floated down: "Marshal, please..."

Both Clark and Marshal ignored her. Clark kept glaring at Marshal, refusing to blink even though his eyes began to prickle.

"And what is it with you and those clothes?" Marshal demanded. "Didn't I tell you to change? Didn't I?"

"Go to Hell!"

("No, Clark, don't...")

Marshal began circumventing the overturned sofa, holding the green rock like an unholy cross before him. "I'm going to teach you a lesson once and for all..."

("Leave him alone, Marshal, he didn't mean it...")

"Like you taught mom?" Clark spat out. He couldn't get himself to advance into that green glow; he couldn't bear to back down. Trapped in place, his hatred intensified until it plunged the world into a red haze.

(" Clark, please... Just get out...")

Marshal took another step forward. "You start respecting your father, you hear me?"

_You're _not_ my father, dammit._ "You're not my father!"

(" Clark, stop it!")

But what happened next, Clark had no idea how to stop. He was glaring at Marshal when the prickle in his eyes got worse; the world blurred and then snapped into terrible focus again; a force passed between him and Marshal, and the air seemed to ignite.

On reflex, Clark tried to look down. Something was spurting in pulses from his eyes. Marshal howled in pain and Linda was screaming, but he hardly heard -- he was too caught up in trying to stop whatever he was doing. He struggled to look at one point only, but the force erupting from his eyes was too wild. His stare raked over the wooden floor, sketching fiery trails, and passed over a discarded bottle that exploded at once. Flames leapt up and began devouring the overturned sofa. The TV set burst in a shower of glass shards.

When it was finally over, Clark staggered back until his back pressed into his familiar corner. His eyes felt painfully cold. Through a veil of black, oily smoke, he saw his mom cowering behind Marshal, who was gazing wide-eyed at his own arm. Clark followed the man's gaze to the hole in the checkered sleeve and the blistering flesh that showed through. Then, realizing what he'd done, he wrenched his stare away and blocked his eyes with his palms.

Marshal's voice rose through the smoke. "Why, you get of the devil..."

Clark kept his hands on his face, but he could feel the sickness unfurling inside him, and then a hand grabbed him by his arm and dragged him across the room. He stumbled along, fighting only to keep his eyes hidden. The smoke slipped slimy fingers down his throat. Once he tripped and fell to his knees, and something sharp bit into his flesh. The hand on his arm jerked him upright again, spun him about, and slammed him back against a wall. Then it switched its hold to his throat and pinned him there.

Clark tried to swallow some air under the increasing pressure. He couldn't break the hold without taking his hands off his face, and damned he were if he did that. But when he heard a key jangle against a lock, he began twisting and kicking in earnest. Too late. A door creaked open, and the pressure on his windpipe lifted only to be replaced by an iron grip on his shoulders. Clark gasped for breath. He felt himself hauled sideways, and all air left his body as he toppled back into the tight embrace of pain. His back hit the floor and his head crashed at an angle into something hard. The jolt tore his hands from his face, and he desperately screwed his eyes shut. Even through his eyelids he could see a pulsing green glow.

He heard the door close and the key turn in the lock. Then it was just him and the pain, locked in a deadly embrace.

Silence.

God, it hurt. He wanted to curl up on his side and throw up, or die, or something. He was too weak to even writhe. Pain was a black hole in him, cold and hungry, prying apart the material of his body and eating it up. His heart pulsed in time with the meteor rocks, so slow that it was killing him.

At least he wouldn't burn anyone alive with his stare.

At least it would be over soon.

It had to be over soon.

But mom...

_Don't fool yourself. All your strength and speed never helped her. She's be better off without you causing trouble._

And he was tired.

So tired.

Sleep.

He came to, limp and hurting as if his skeleton had been ripped out of his body. His every muscle and tendon was screaming, and he was shaking wildly. No, someone was shaking him. An urgent voice was whispering in his ear.

"Come on, wake up..."

He opened his eyes to the sight of his mom's face, lined and bruised and worried. Her stare was darting all around, but when she looked down at him and saw him awake, she scrambled away. Clark suddenly remembered why and closed his eyes tight.

" Clark, you have to go," she whispered. "If he wakes up..."

Clark tried to answer, but his tongue lay in his mouth like a dead thing. He rolled his head sideways, and opened his eyes just long enough to recognize the room. He was sprawled on the kitchen floor.

"Hurry, Clark..."

He reasserted partial control of his mouth. "Comithme," he said.

He could clearly imagine her shaking her head. "I can't, you know I can't. He's lost without me."

"No..." He couldn't elaborate further.

"But you have to get out of here. Just... stay away for a while until things get better. He'll calm down. We'll work this out, I promise."

A string of silent coughs escaped Clark, but he wasn't sure if he was laughing or sobbing. He gritted his teeth and rolled onto his stomach. A sharp pain flared in his knees. He ignored it and propelled himself upright, groping blindly for a handhold.

"Next time I see him," he rasped, "I'll kill him."

"Don't talk like that." Fear and anger vied in Linda's voice. "He's your father. He loves you. Maybe he doesn't know how to show it, but deep down, he still loves you."

Still keeping his eyes tightly shut, Clark reached out to his mom. His searching hand found nothing. He held it out a moment longer, then let it fall to his side.

With a series of brief blinks, he navigated to the front door and left the Keller residence. It was still light outside. Had a day passed? No, he wouldn't have survived a day in that room. Only a couple of hours, then. It was still the afternoon of the same day, and there he was again: a monster stranded in the world of normal people, with nowhere to go.

. 

:: To be continued ::


	10. Resurgent

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay (again). Math keeps getting in the way of my writing... Anyway, I think I'm rusty again. Hope it doesn't show too much. Enjoy!

.

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Chapter Ten: Resurgent

. 

Matthew Kent was tired of walking. He'd been wearing a trench in Smallville's sidewalks for over three hours, whiling away the afternoon. Now, like once every half-an-hour, his path took him past the Talon. Matt slowed down and peered through the windows. Still no sign of Lana. Sighing, he passed the Talon by, crossed the street to Hank's hardware store, and pretended to gaze at its display window. By now he knew the price of every item there. He let his mind wander.

The books in Clark's locker screamed of foul play in the Keller family, that much was certain. How had he missed the signs before? Looking back on his history with Keller, the dark hint seemed to jump out at him. Ordinary bullies surrounded themselves with sycophants (_like Whitney_, the thought came unbidden). Clark was always alone. Bullies took center stage. Clark rarely demanded attention, rarely got loud, never bragged. He never picked on girls, Matt realized. In fact, he rarely lashed out unless provoked...

Except he always attacked Matt on sight. And he never showed a sign of abuse.

Matt shook his head, and his reflection in Hank's window followed suit. He just couldn't work it out by himself. He couldn't go to Chloe -- she would put two and two together faster than a calculator, and this wasn't his secret to share. Same went for Pete. His parents would certainly know what to do, but dad would insist on getting a name, and it wasn't Matt's to give. Only Lana, perhaps...

Matt turned his back on Hank's store and scanned the Talon's front. _Admit it, it's pointless. She's not coming_. He should call it quits. Hank had already come out once to ask him about that heavy-duty, bargain-priced blowtorch.

Still...

He should pass by the Talon one more time, to see if he'd somehow missed her.

He moved forward -- and sensed the presence at his back a split second before a sturdy hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Hello, son," Jonathan's voice came from behind. "Come for a blowtorch? I hear they're pretty cheap."

Matt turned guiltily. "Um, no, actually..."

Jonathan's laughing eyes flicked to the Talon. "I guess you're more into lattes."

Matt cleared his throat and tacked wildly. "Is mom with you?"

"She's back at the farm, getting ready," Jonathan said. He raised his eyebrows in response to Matt's confusion. "Our dinner in Metropolis, remember?"

"Oh, yes." Matt had forgotten all about it. "Big night, huh?"

His dad only smiled, but it was enough of an answer. Matt easily recognized the "luckiest-guy-on-earth" look in his brown eyes.

"Need a ride to the farm?" Jonathan said.

Matt gave the Talon a last abortive glance. "Yeah," he sighed. "I've got some chores to do."

"Now that's an understatement." Jonathan's stare scanned Matt briefly, and his brow furrowed. "Where's your bag?"

"My -- what? " Matt's heart stuttered. "I guess I forgot it at school," he mumbled to the sidewalk.

"Son..." Jonathan's exhaled loudly. "You've got to take better care of your stuff. You know your mother and I can't afford --"

"I know, dad, I know. I'm sorry." Matt took a deep breath and spilled out the rest. "I kinda left school early today."

He glanced up. The disappointment etched on his dad's face sent a pang of shame through his guts, and he quickly looked away.

Jonathan's voice was forcefully calm. "Care to explain why?"

Oh, God, yes. But he couldn't. Besides, he'd already spoiled Jonathan's good mood, and didn't want to ruin the entire evening. His parents had been looking forward to it for so long.

"Come on," Jonathan said finally, walking away. "I'll drop you off at school, but I can't wait up for you. Get your bag, go home, and do your homework and chores. We'll talk about this later."

Matt followed him with a heavy heart, and they drove silently until the high-school building came into view. All but abandoned, it seemed foreboding.

"Dad --" he said, just as Jonathan said, "Matthew, son --"

Matt fell silent and Jonathan sighed.

"You better go in," he said.

"Yeah." Matt swallowed. "Look, dad, just... Have a great time tonight, okay?"

A flicker of a smile answered him, but all Jonathan said was, "We'll talk about this later."

Matt climbed out of the car and headed for the front doors. The building was dark and silent, but unlocked. Perhaps the cleaning crew was still at work. Behind him, tires screeched on asphalt as Jonathan drove away. A shudder crawled down Matt's back. He braced himself and entered the building.

"Hello?" he called into the empty hallway. "Anybody here?"

His voice traveled left and right, knocking against locked doors and coming up empty. Matt gazed around. He had no idea where to start looking.

A door creaked open somewhere on his left.

"Who's there?" he called out.

_"Who's there?" _echoes answered.

A faraway light flicked on and off, on and off, like a Morse code.

Matt thought longingly of his dad's truck speeding away, and wished he were in it. But the thought of Jonathan breathed warmth into his bones. Jonathan would have challenged whatever lurked in these hallways.

Matt squared up and moved into the corridor on his left. "Who's there?" he challenged again.

The light flickered. It was coming from around the corner. Matt inched forward, pressing against the wall. _Come on, Qaletaqa..._

He rounded the corner with his hands ready to ward off or strike, or something.

Nothing was there.

A ghostly white radiance poured out of the open door of the Torch.

"Chloe?" Matt called hesitantly. "Is that you?"

No answer.

The light blinked off and returned.

_If she's in there... If she's in trouble..._

Matt broke into a run. He reached the Torch and looked inside --

Into an empty room. No one in sight.

"Chloe?" he called softly. One of the table lamps was emitting a soft glow, and the cluttered desks seemed to crouch in pools of shadows. Matt probed them with a stare. They were large enough to hide someone (_or something -- an unconscious body?_). He licked his lips and carefully stepped inside.

The door slammed shut behind him and the light clicked off, plunging him in darkness so thick it clogged his throat.

Matt recoil in a stab of feral panic. He clawed at the doorknob once, twice, until the door gave in before him and he stumbled outside. Red shapes danced before his eyes. He heard footsteps pounding on the floor in a wild dash, and took off in pursuit -- he crashed into a line of lockers -- he turned the corner just in time to see a boy slipping out the front doors, and then the double door slammed shut.

Matt threw himself against the door, but it absorbed his momentum with a resounding thud. It was a panic door, he remembered. He fumbled for the bar and pushed again and again, rattling the doors. They remained shut. He was locked inside.

He turned in frustration, pressed his back against the door and slid down to the floor. _Now what?_

Soon his eyes adjusted to the dark hallway, and his heart slowed down its wild stampede. Matt picked himself up. Curling up at the door like a lost pup would get him nowhere. He should simply look for another way out, and if he found his bag while he was at it, all the better.

He took the right corridor this time, heading away from the Torch. Strange, how the place looked different when dark and deserted, as if it were a different building at night. His footsteps echoed eerily. The classrooms were all locked. The hallway seemed alien, though Matt knew he was walking in the general direction of the library. His own locker was somewhere up ahead. So was Keller's.

He was so busy scanning the hallway and looking over his shoulder that he almost missed the unlocked door. It was opened an inch, and the room inside was dark. Matt would have easily overlooked it if it weren't for the rustle that sounded from within. He froze in place and listened.

Nothing.

Then, the rustle again. And a quiet, choked breath.

Matt felt a tingle along his spine. _Oh, not again..._ But he couldn't go past the door and leave it unguarded it behind him, and suddenly he was sick of being afraid.

Sucking a breath through clenched teeth, Matt pulled the door open, slipped a hand inside, and switched on the light.

The fluorescent light blinked on and rendered the small room in harsh lines and colors. A massive bookcase covered one wall; a neat desk took up most of the remaining space; two simple straight-backed chairs, one on either side of the desk, completed the furniture.

But all of this Matt vaguely registered as 'office'. It was the figure on the floor that caught his eye, and stole his breath like a bucketful of ice water.

Curled in the corner of the room was Clark Keller. His green T-shirt was torn and stained, his black hair was rumpled, and his head was pressed against the wall. When the fluorescent light became stable, he turned to Matt. His face was pale and haggard, and his narrowed eyes were red, and seemed to get unnaturally redder by the moment.

Then, just as abruptly, Clark buried his head against the wall and covered it with his arm. His voice came gravelly and tight: "Get lost, Kent."

Matt lingered in the doorway, not even sure why. Perhaps because for once, the sight of Clark didn't spark in him fear, but compassion. Matt was forcefully reminded of a cornered wolf, and for a crazy moment, his affinity for wildlife stretched to encompass this boy.

Crazy, because Matt found himself walking into the office. "Are you alright?" he said softly.

"Fine," came the answer. "Just great. Now go away."

Matt inched forward. "Look, I can't just leave you here..."

"Why not?" Clark snarled.

He kept his face adamantly turned away, so Matt gazed at the back of his head. Was that blood that congealed in his black hair? Matt felt a lump in his throat.

"I'm sorry about your backpack," he said. "And your locker. I had no right --"

"So it _was_ you? If you ever do it again, I'll --"

"What, beat the crap out of me?" Matt snapped back. "As if you need an excuse!"

_Wow, where did that come from?_

Clark fell silent, and Matt regretted his retort. But being angry with Keller (and surviving it) gave him courage. He sat in the straight-backed chair and wished he were good at these kind of things.

"I know about your father," he ventured. _Oh God, Chloe told him the same thing -- right before she called him a criminal._ "I mean, I know he gets violent sometimes."

Clark tensed in his corner. "You don't know anything. You had no right to go through my stuff."

"Look, I said I'm sorry." Matt choked down his frustration. "It's only fair, anyway. You know my secret."

"What secret?" Clark grumbled.

"Don't play with me, okay? I know you know about my mom. I know that's why you're always beating me."

Clark's head moved as if to turn to Matt, but he froze halfway through and looked away again. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"Oh, really?" Matt felt his anger bubbling up again. It was intoxicating. "Then why do you always pick on me?"

A silent beat, and then, "I hate the way you dress."

Matt froze with his mouth agape and stared at Clark. His compassion condensed into hatred --

"My old man dresses like that."

-- and thawed again, leaving Matt with a wretched feeling. "Oh," he said in a small voice. Was that a vague confession of his dad's violence? _Maybe as close to one as I'll get._ "I didn't realize --"

"So what _about_ your mom?" Clark said brusquely.

Matt recognized a wild tack when he heard one, and respected it. He cursed himself for digging his own pit. It had taken him years to confide in Pete, and now he was supposed to expose himself to his worst enemy? But wasn't it him who had said it was only fair?

Clark broke the stretching silence with a disgusted snort. "Get out."

Matt stayed in the chair and took a deep breath. "My mom was a Native American," he said. "She fell for this white guy who was just passing through. She followed him to Metropolis. He turned her away." His voice sounded bitter in his own ears, even after all this time. "By then she was pregnant. She was too ashamed to go back to her tribe, and she didn't have anywhere to go, so she lived on the streets of Metropolis until I was born." Matt's lips curled, but the smile was mirthless. "She lasted just long enough to dump me in the orphanage, then she died. So there. I'm a bastard, my father never wanted me to happen, and I as good as killed my mom."

Another silent stretched between them.

"I'm sorry about your mom," Clark said after a while, so quietly that Matt barely heard him.

It wasn't what he'd expected to hear. "Yeah, well, old history," he said awkwardly. He fidgeted in the chair. _At least I got adopted by the Kents --_ Oh, he couldn't say that, not when the Kellers had been the ones to adopt Clark. "I'm sorry about, you know --"

Clark shrugged, but kept his face to the wall.

"Listen, I have to go home," Matt began, and trailed off when he remembered the locked front door.

"Then get the Hell out of here." Clark snuggled tighter into his corner, resting his head against his raised knees. "No one asked you to come."

Matt frowned. Questions like '_Aren't you going home?_'flitted through his mind, but he bit them back. He tried to imagine a home so terrible that he would rather sleep at school, and shuddered. Clark's father -- Marshal, wasn't it -- must be some kind of a monster.

"Wanna come with me?" The question had left Matt's lips before the words took clear form in his mind. Both he and Clark started.

Clark darted a look at him and quickly looked away. "Why?"

Why indeed? Matt felt crazy, trying to play Weedon Scott to Clark's White Fang. Didn't the wolf try to bite off Scott's head in that book? But even if he did, Matt couldn't leave a wounded creature to suffer alone in the dark.

_Huh. And if I tell him that, he'll rip me apart_.

The question still hung between them.

"Well, for one thing," Matt improvised wildly, "there's some food at the farm. You look like you could use a square meal."

A soft rumble answered him, and Matt realized just how right he'd been. Was Marshal starving the boy?

Clark shifted in his corner, but made no move to get to his feet. His muscles danced under his skin, and his entire body radiated tension. Matt imagined his inner struggle like a pair of twisting dragons.

"Come on," Matt said. He never imagined his voice could sound so gentle. "Let's get you out of here."

The struggle went out of Clark, but he only settled into a tighter ball in his corner. His voice came as a harsh whisper. "Just go away, Matt."

"No." Matt wondered at the resolve in his own voice, but it felt good, it felt right. _And who would have guessed? He actually knows my name. _"Clark, look at me."

Clark shook his head and buried it further against the wall.

Matt exhaled in frustration. No one wanted to be seen crying, but this was getting ridiculous. "Look at me, Clark."

"You don't know what you're asking."

"Just look at me, dammit."

Slowly, the black-curled head began turning in his direction. Matt felt a thrill of fear run down his spine. _What did he mean, 'you don't know what you're asking'? Why was he hiding his face like that? What was going to --_

He met Clark's gaze, and his breath hitched in the back of his throat. Those eyes -- Matt had seen them narrowed in anger or laughing in contempt, but never like this: full of fear and hurt and loathing which Matt could tell was directed inward. Clark's face was streaked with dried blood and tears. All doubt about Marshal's abusive nature vanished.

"It's okay," Matt said quietly. "I'm not leaving you alone here."

His words had a transforming effect on Clark's expression. The hurt was still there, but a sense of guarded relief replaced the fear in those eyes, as if some terrible thing had been averted.

Puzzled, Matt said, "What did you expect to happen?"

"Nothing."

_Like Hell._

Clark shook himself and climbed to his feet. Matt had forgotten how high the boy was. Clark wiped his face with the back of his arm, and Matt saw, through the slashes in his shirt, that his skin was intact; at the same time, the dark stains on his shirt could only be blood. What was going on? What had Clark been expecting? And if the blood was not Clark's, was Matt inviting a killer into his parents' home?

For a heartbeat, he wanted to take back his words. But the memory of Clark's haunted eyes nagged at him, and he decided to trust his first instinct. He just hoped he wouldn't regret it.

He conquered a shiver and stood up. "Come on."

. 

:: To be continued ::


	11. Alternative

Author's Note: Jeez, another long delay... Actually, I thought it was ready last week, but I didn't post it for some reason. Then today I revamped the ending, and I think it turned out stronger this way, so hopefully the wait was worth it. Thanks for bearing with me, guys. You rock.

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* * *

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Chapter Eleven: Alternative

Clark hated the high school building, but at least it was better by night: no noise, no commotion, no need to fend off attacks, and no reason to constantly stand on guard... except for the figure of the short boy who was walking three steps ahead of him, shrouded in shadows and mystery.

Clark Keller had been around long enough to know the rules of the universe. When you're down, you get kicked. When you show weakness, you get broken. When you trust, you get stabbed in the back. Life is nothing but a cold-hearted market, and everything -- and everyone -- has a price.

So what was Matthew Kent getting out of this situation? Either he was gaining something Clark couldn't see, or worse, he simply wasn't playing by the rules, which made him unpredictable and dangerous. Either way, Clark resolved to keep his guards up.

"Why are we going this way?" he asked Matt.

"Hmm?" Matt stopped and turned. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. The front doors are locked."

_As if that's a problem._ Clark stopped himself from rolling his eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked instead.

A shadow flitted over Matt's face, but he shook it off. "Yeah, I'm sure."

_Hiding something, aren't we?_

Clark turned away and backtracked to the office they'd just left. Bailey's office. He trailed a fond hand over its door as he passed it by, heading for the front doors. After a moment, he heard Matt jogging to catch up.

"I'm telling you they're locked," the boy grumbled on his left.

Clark shrugged. "Worth a second check. What're you doing here, anyway?"

"I forgot my backpack."

Clark hoisted his own backpack higher on his shoulder. The backpack which Matt had returned to him earlier that day. Sort of. He didn't want to think about it. "Man, you're pathetic. All that noise over a backpack?"

Beside him, Matt hesitated. "I ran into someone here," he said finally.

Clark quirked an eyebrow, though Matt was looking straight ahead. "Who?"

"I don't know. I didn't really see him." He shuddered, or so it seemed to Clark. "It was weird stuff -- the lights kept blinking on and off..."

Clark pretended to listen, but used the time to scan through the school. It was a difficult, delicate work, peeling layer after layer of reality, looking through walls and desks in search of the metal parts in a backpack. Luckily, it wasn't far away.

"... and then he ran out the front doors," Matt finished his tale.

"Did you try the Torch?" Clark said.

"I told you, I followed him away from the Torch."

They reached the front doors, and Matt shook them. They remained shut. "See?"

This time, Clark allowed himself to roll his eyes. "Your backpack," he said. "In the Torch. Did you try there?"

"Oh." Matt glanced into the other corridor and shuddered. "No, I don't think it's there."

Clark smirked. "Scared of the dark?"

He caught a glimpse of hurt and anger on Matt's face before the boy straightened up. "Fine, I'll go check."

Clark waited until after Matt had rounded the corner. Then he laid his hands against the doors and began applying pressure. The doors creaked. The lock mechanism screamed like a tortured soul, and then, suddenly, the doors gave in and parted before him. Clark smiled to himself. His smile widened when Matt came running back, his bag bouncing wildly on his shoulder.

"What was that?" Matt called.

"I guess the doors weren't as locked as you thought," Clark said lightly.

Matt shook his head. "Damn, I could have sworn... How'd you know my bag was in the Torch?"

"I -- Well --" _Good question. _"I saw you coming out with my bag, earlier. When... you know." They both knew. Clark felt an unexpected pang of shame. "Anyway, I figured yours was still inside."

"Sharp memory," Matt said softly. But Clark caught his doubtful sideways glance.

It took an eternity of hitchhiking and walking to reach the Kents' farm, and a black night had stamped down the land by the time the two boys clambered onto the porch.

"This is it," Matt said as he unlocked the door. He pushed through, dropped his bag, and stretched. "Mom? Dad?"

Just like that. No sneaking in, no carefully scanning the rooms, no tension or fear; just a boy coming home. Clark found himself stuck on the porch, twisting in jealousy's paws and furiously blinking back tears.

"They're still in Metropolis," Matt was saying. He turned and frowned at Clark's hesitation. "Aren't you coming in?"

Clark pulled himself together and entered the Kents' residence. His nerves were like over-taut strings, on which tension was thrumming its battle-song. He'd never felt as out-of-place as he felt in that quiet, peaceful house. He almost expected Matt's father to jump out of the shadows, brandishing a meteor rock and demanding that Clark left.

"Come on, I'll fix us something to eat," Matt said.

Clark's stomach grumbled in reply.

The Kents' fridge was stuffed full of food. Clark, sitting on the edge of a kitchen chair, eyed it greedily, while Matt took out some dishes and a bottle of orange juice. It took so long for their dinner to heat up that Clark would have rather eaten it cold.

_I wonder if my stare would work faster than the oven._

The thought plunged Clark back into miserable reality. What he'd done to his old man was monstrous enough, but the Kents had done nothing to him. He had no right to endanger their son and house with his presence. He should leave at once. He should never have come.

The smell of home-cooked food rolled heavily on the air.

Clark stood up abruptly, just as Matt announced, "Ready!"

A confused moment, during which Clark kept his eyes on the floor.

Matt broke the silence. "You, uh, wanna wash your hands or something?"

"I have to go," Clark said. It came out softer than a whisper, even though he'd used all his strength to move the words past his lips.

The whisper was lost in the clatter of dishes as Matt set the table. "What was that?" He waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen sink. "There's soap in the blue jar."

Clark closed his eyes. Surely, if he was careful... Just this one dinner... It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go.

He washed his hands carefully, mesmerized by the small dark snakes that flowed from his skin, where he'd wiped the blood from his knees and the back of his head. Both injuries were gone. His old man, he bet, was still feeling his arm -- those chunks of charred flesh and bubbling skin -- Clark doubled over the sink and tried not to throw up. The water flowed coolly down his face.

He returned to his chair at the kitchen table, sitting opposite of Matt and being careful not to even glance at him. He stared intently at his plate, and the sight of it was enough to restore his appetite. Clark tucked in. Dinner was some kind of meat, with a side dish of potatoes -- he didn't register the details, only that it was hot and good, and definitely not cafeteria food. It was all he could do not eat at super-speed. He reached for his orange juice and drained it in two long gulps. When he lowered the glass, he glimpsed a faint smile on Matt's face.

"Easy," Matt said. "No one's taking your plate away."

Clark ducked his head and continued eating. Even though he slowed down, by the time he'd cleared the plate, Matt was only halfway through his. Clark put down his fork in a mixture of relief and regret.

"Let me get you some more," Matt said.

Clark felt as if he should say something, but he wasn't sure what. He wasn't so good at this guest thing. Probably whatever he'd say would be the wrong thing.

They didn't exchange another word, not when Matt finished eating, not when Clark finished his second plate, and not when Matt brought him a third helping and watched him work his way through it.

Finally, Clark pushed away the empty plate and slumped back in his chair. Sated. Warm. Content. Not feelings he was used to. He cherished the moment, and at the same time, felt angry with himself for the indulgence. There was always a price to pay for these things.

Matt cleared his throat. "So, uh... Do you wanna talk?"

Clark let a long moment of silence answer for him.

"Okay," Matt said finally. "No problem. Listen, it's getting late..."

"Right." Clark picked up his bag and pushed himself to his feet, suddenly eager to leave. Matt was probably regretting ever inviting him. "I'm going."

"Where to?"

The question caught him off guard, and he shot Matt a surprised look. Those golden-brown eyes were studying him intently over the kitchen table.

Clark tried to shrug casually. "Some place," he said. _Back to school, maybe. _"Doesn't really matter."

Another moment of awkward silence followed. _Say 'thank you for dinner', _Clark commanded himself. _Come on, just say it._ But thanking Matt would be admitting that Clark owed him one, or worse, that Clark had needed the help. Only the weak need help.

"Good night," Clark said briskly, just as Matt said, "You can sleep on the sofa."

"I -- what?" Clark stumbled in his words, trying to regain his bearings.

Matt smiled -- almost apologetically, of all things. "It's not the most comfortable arrangement," he said. "But it beats the gym, or Bailey's office."

_As if you'd know_. Clark bit back the retort and shouldered his bag. He had finally figured it out. "Look, Matt, you don't have to do this, okay? You've done your good thing for today. You get full brownie points, or whatever, so lay off." He managed to pull off a sneer. "Stop wearing those stupid plaid shirts, and I might even stop beating you up. That good enough for you?"

But Matt was rolling his eyes. "You're impossible, you know that?"

_Oh, yeah. More than you'll ever know._

"Can't you just --" Matt seemed to swallow the rest of the sentence. He shook his head. "Look, I owe you one. I'd probably still be stuck in school if it weren't for you. So just do me a favor, okay?"

Clark regarded Matt for a long moment, trying to figure him out. He didn't buy that 'I owe you' stuff for a second. It was frustrating. Why _was_ Matt doing this? Despite himself, Clark glanced back into the living room. _Not a comfortable arrangement, right_. The couch looked like the sleeping place of kings.

"I'll go get you some blankets," Matt said firmly.

Clark's head snapped back. "Didn't say I was staying."

But Matt had already taken off to the upper floor.

Clark sighed, wandered into the living room, and stood there, unsure what to do. _Strange house. Crazy people._ God, he was tired. Tired of trying to understand, tired of standing on guard, tired of being strong. Let the world kick him when he was down, if it meant a decent night's sleep. He dropped his bag next to the sofa.

Matt came back down, carrying an armful of sheets and blankets. One last suspicion popped into Clark's mind, and his eyes narrowed. "You're not into me or something, are you?"

Matt froze in place, gazing wide-eyed. Then he guffawed. "No offense, Clark, but you're not my type. Wrong, um... plumbing, and all that."

After that, Clark allowed himself to relax. Marginally. He refused the offer of pajamas (from Jonathan Kent's closet; Matt's were too small for him). His only concession to comfort was to peel off his shoes. The couch was too short, but he didn't care. Soon he was curled on his side under the warm blankets, in a pleasant, peaceful darkness. He fell asleep almost immediately.

"Hi, honey."

"Hey, son."

"Hi, guys. How was dinner?"

The hushed voices seeped into Clark's dreams and floated him out so gently that he couldn't remember waking.

"I got my bag," Matt was saying softly.

"Did you finish your chores?" a male voice said.

"No, I didn't get around to that. I --"

"You were supposed to check the fence around the northern range," the male voice cut him off, harsher this time. "What's going on with you, son? It's not like you to be this irresponsible."

Clark closed his eyes tight. Maybe he should leave. He could super-speed out of there without the Kents ever seeing him; he'd be no more than a freak gale through their house. What had he gotten himself into? Matt's father sounded as bad as Clark's old man.

"Shhh, dad, quiet," Matt said urgently.

Clark felt their stares on him. He kept absolutely still, pretending to be fast asleep, though his heart thundered like a herd of galloping horses. No one called his bluff.

"Who's that?" a female voice whispered.

"Clark Keller," came Matt's whisper. "He's in my class."

"Keller?" The male voice was much quieter now, but still sounded disgruntled.

"Yeah," Matt said. "Um... do you know him?"

"I know the father." The distaste in the male voice pleased Clark, until he realized that it probably encompassed himself as well. "What's _he_ doing here?"

_Good question._ Clark considered leaping to his feet and confronting the Kents. He could imagine Matt's answer: _I found out his old man is beating him up, and I felt so sorry for him, I just had to take him in_. Clark felt a searing pressure building behind his eyelids, and for a change, he welcomed it. _Fine. Let's see how sorry he feels for me with my fist in his --_

"He was, uh, helping me with my Physics homework," Matt was saying. "We lost track of time, and then it was too dark to check the fence. I'm sorry."

The reply leached the anger out of Clark, leaving him suddenly exhausted.

"Well, in that case," the female voice said, "I guess it's alright. It's just this once, Jonathan. And we all had a long day."

"Alright," the male voice said with a sigh. "We'll talk about it tomorrow. Good night, son."

Clark listened distractedly while the family said goodnight. Strange. Matt's dad -- Jonathan -- had sounded harsh, but neither Matt nor his mom had sounded scared. Mrs. Kent's intervention had been a demand more than a plea. And when Matt had lied to his father, he'd sounded downright miserable. For the first time in a long while, Clark wondered just how a family like this -- a normal family -- worked. He had little time to wonder, though, for sleep soon reclaimed him.

Some time after midnight, his old man came for him.

Clark had no idea how Marshal knew where to find him, but as soon as the door burst open, he knew it was him. Clark struggled against the blanket that held him like a straightjacket, and only managed to fall off the couch. The noise brought the Kents down from their bedrooms.

At the sight of Marshal, Matt smiled in relief. "What took you so long? I called you hours ago."

Clark twisted like crazy, and finally managed to free himself from the blanket. He backed against the wall, cursing himself for walking straight into this trap.

"What's going on?" Matt's father demanded. Now that Clark could see him, he looked very much like Marshal.

And Marshal told them. Told them every freakish thing Clark had ever done, all the trouble and ruin he'd wreaked. He waved his left arm as he talked, or what was left of it: between shoulder and hand, only charred bones remained.

"He's the son of the devil," Marshal concluded his retelling. "You people don't stand a chance against him. But God has given me the power to stop him."

And he drew out a long, sharp meteor rock, and started closing in on Clark.

Trapped against the wall, Clark turned a pleading stare to the Kents. But Jonathan Kent looked exactly like Marshal Keller, and the mother was Linda, and Matt was smirking at him. Clark felt the building pressure behind his eyes and knew what was coming, but he couldn't turn his stare away from Matt, couldn't stop it --

Marshal stopped it for him, plunging the meteorite stake right into his chest.

"No!"

Clark sat upright in bed, shivering and breathless. The room around him was alien. He tried to get up, but his legs tangled in something and he fell to the floor, just like in his dream. _A dream_, his mind seized on the realization. _Just a dream_.

He took a deep breath and looked around him. He was in the Kents' living room; his legs had tangled up in the blankets, and he'd fallen off the couch. The semblance to his nightmare was strong enough to make him twist and kick frantically until he freed himself. He scrambled to his feet and looked at the door, then through the door. No sign of his old man. _Just a dream_.

Clark dropped back onto the sofa and buried his head in his hands. _I can't go on like this. I can't do this._ He was so tired. He never wanted to sleep again. Instead he got up and left the Kents' house.

It was early in the morning, so early that dawn manifested not as the presence of light, but as the absence of pitch-black darkness. Clark had no problem choosing his way, though. The farm hands were stirring up already, so he bypassed their lodge and took off at super-speed some distance away.

Finding the northern range was easy enough. Clark zoomed along the fence, keeping a sharp eye on it. The crisp, open air cleared the cobwebs of dread from his mind. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he enjoyed the sprint for itself.

Some minutes later he found a breach in the fence, and slowed to a stop. A couple of the posts had collapsed, taking the railing with them. Cows straggled on either side of the fence, munching on wet grass and gazing at Clark as if they found his speed rude. Clark smiled to himself.

It took a couple of dashes to and from the farm, but within twenty minutes, the cows all stood on one side of the fixed fence. Clark surveyed his handiwork and smiled in ridiculous satisfaction. Maybe he could be a farmer some day.

He returned to the Kents' house some time after dawn, but it was still and quiet inside. He almost tripped on the schoolbag which Matt had dropped near the entrance, the evening before. God, how could it have been only yesterday? The bruises on Linda's face, Clark's anger, the fire, the green room...

Clark shook himself and picked up Matt's bag. He hesitated before opening it. But why shouldn't he? Matt had gone over his stuff, not once, but twice. Clark opened the bag and rummaged inside until he found what he was looking for -- Matt's Physics notebook.

He took it to the kitchen, which smelled strongly of coffee and honey, and sat down at the table. For the next half an hour, he went through the notebook, correcting equations and jotting explanations. The only precise sketches in the notebook were elaborate renderings of the name "Lana". Clark stored the knowledge for later use.

To Clark, high-school physics was a joke. From the look of the notebook, though, he doubted Matt was laughing. The boy was hopeless. _No one_ integrates a conservative force over a closed path. Why get tangled in math when you know in advance that the result is zero? And how-oh-_how_ did Matt end up with the square root of two?

Clark sighed and crossed out the last three pages. He wondered what explanation to write. Life was a conservative force: you started somewhere, you ended up in the same place, and what difference did it make in the end? Absolutely nothing. _And Matt will buy that, right_. He settled for the boring example of a ball moving through a gravitational field.

"Do you have enough light, dear?"

That, and the gentle hand on his shoulder, made Clark leap up in alarm. He knocked into his chair and overturned it, but managed to catch it in one blurry motion.

Mrs. Kent smiled apologetically. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

Clark shrugged, but inwardly, he was scolding himself for getting so wrapped up in Matt's homework. He was getting sloppy with his defenses, dammit.

Then he truly saw her for the first time, and he forgot all about his defenses. She had an aura of power about her. It wasn't just her beauty -- Linda was just as beautiful, no matter what people said -- but this woman radiated a sense of strength and liveliness that overwhelmed Clark. In that single second, he both admired and resented her, because she was everything his own mom wasn't.

The second passed.

"Well." She smiled, and it was a good, strong smile. "I'm Martha, by the way."

Clark nodded acknowledgement, but she seemed to be waiting for something else.

After a moment she said, "Clark, right?"

He nodded again. He realized he was staring at her, which was the last thing he should be doing, what with the storm of emotions that rolled within him. He looked away. His eyes found Matt's open notebook on the kitchen table. He reached over and closed it.

"Matt said you're helping him with Physics," Martha said, walking over to the fridge. "I think that's great -- Wow. You boys really cleaned us out."

Clark felt the blood surging in his cheeks. "It's my fault," he began to say, but Martha was already flashing him a smile over her shoulder.

"How do you like your eggs?"

When he didn't answer, she nodded as if he'd made a choice, and set to work. Despite her earlier claim, the kitchen still seemed full of foodstuff. Martha pulled out some vegetables and started cutting them with expert hands, while the eggs sizzled in the skillet.

"Jonathan's already out in the fields," she said. "I can't believe he let me sleep in so long. And, of course, no human power can drag Matt out of bed before breakfast."

_At least you guys have breakfast._ Silent minutes ticked by while he stood there, watching Martha prepare breakfast with practiced grace. Good thing Jonathan wasn't there. Was Clark supposed to speak? Was he supposed to help? Was he supposed to leave? He didn't mind the latter; he was hungry, but nothing like the soul-deep hunger that usually plagued him. He could go to school now. First period started in an hour or so, anyway.

"Go ahead and sit, Clark," Martha said, flipping the eggs over in one hand and placing a kettle on the stove with the other. "Breakfast will be ready soon. Your parents know you're here, right?"

"I'm adopted," Clark answered automatically, angrily, and, he realized too late, irrelevantly.

"Oh!" Martha turned to beam at him, as if it were a wonderful thing. "So is Matt. Well, he probably told you that. Did he tell you how we found him?"

"Oh, please, mom." Matt's complaining voice preceded him into the kitchen. He followed soon after, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

"Look who's up," Martha teased him. "Good morning, honey."

"D'morning, mom." Matt dropped into his chair. "Clark. Sleep well?"

Clark shrugged. That was one question he preferred not to think of, let alone answer. He turned back to Martha. "How was that?"

"Hmm?" She finished setting the table, and her face brightened in understanding. "Oh, that. It was a little after the meteor shower. Jonathan and I -- we couldn't have children of our own, you know --"

Clark wondered if he should say something consoling, but the moment passed too quickly.

"-- so we went to this adoption agency in Metropolis. The kids were playing on the second floor. I was so nervous that I tripped near the end of the stairs."

Martha smiled in fond memory. Matt groaned and buried his face in his hands, but Clark could tell by his ears that he was blushing.

"I looked up, and there was this handsome little boy, hunching down to look at me. He didn't say a thing, he just smiled. And that was it. I knew he was the one."

This time, Clark knew he was supposed to say something, and it wasn't _So why did you take Matt instead?_

"That's..." He struggled for the right word. _Sweet? Stupid?_ "... Good," he finished lamely.

Martha looked at him with surprise, then nodded. "Yes, it is. I guess you can say we didn't find him. He found us."

_Well, then, he did a much better job than me._

"Are we done talking about me?" Matt asked in mock-exasperation.

"Yes, dear." Martha brought the salad and eggs to the table, followed by toasted bread, cheese, and a teapot. She gestured Clark to sit down, and he did so reluctantly, wondering what on earth he was doing there.

"So how did your parents find you, Clark?" Martha asked, piling salad on her slice of bread.

Clark tensed. Matt gave him a look that was both horrified and apologetic, but Clark ignored it. "I'm not sure," he said. "It was on the day of the meteor shower. Mom found me somewhere around the access road to Smallville."

Martha looked incredulous. "What, just wandering along the road?"

"I guess," Clark said coldly. "She doesn't talk about it much."

"But --"

"And I don't really care," he cut her off.

She opened and closed her mouth, and her hurt expression changed to pensive. "Well, it was a hard day for everyone."

"I'm just glad you and dad got out of it alright," Matt interjected quickly. "Were you guys in Metropolis?"

"No, we were just outside Smallville. We had a flat tire. Jonathan was changing it when the first meteor struck."

Matt asked another question, and Clark knew that he was stirring the conversation away from the Kellers. He should have probably pitched in, but all he could do was stare down at his hands, trying to process a train of thoughts set into motion by Martha's words.

The Kents had been just outside Smallville on the day of the meteor shower. How close had they been to the spot where Linda had found him? Would they have stopped for him? How close had he been to becoming Clark Kent?

He cast an envious glance at Matt and Martha, who were laughing over something they'd said, oblivious of the horrors of life. That could have been him: entering a home as if leaving the troubles of the world behind; bantering over the breakfast table; being hugged for goodnight... Something stuck in his throat. He was being foolish. Marshal was right about one thing: wherever Clark went, ruin followed. Had the Kents found him, he'd have probably torn their small family apart, just like he'd done the Kellers.

Matt had no idea what he'd invited into his home.

"Morning, sleepyheads!"

Clark had recognized the voice even before Jonathan Kent entered the kitchen, bringing with him a waft of fresh air and fertile soil. Matt hadn't joked when he said that Jonathan wore plaid.

He gave Martha a brief hug and a kiss, which she returned with a smile. "Hi, honey."

"Good morning, dad," Matt said with beaming eyes.

Jonathan stepped behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. Clark winced in sympathy, but Matt leaned into the touch and flashed a smile at his father.

"Clark," Jonathan said, and there was a hint of coldness in his voice that stood out against his previous greetings.

Clark found himself staring, and quickly dropped his gaze. Except for his shirt, Jonathan looked nothing like Marshal. But there was a hidden hardness in him that made Clark's chest tighten and his breath quicken. Fear. He hated the feeling. Falling back on pure defiance, he looked Jonathan straight in the eye.

At least he tried. Jonathan had already turned to fix himself a cup of coffee. "Are you sure you weren't at the northern range yesterday, son?" he said over his shoulder.

Clark breathed a silent sigh of relief, acutely aware of Matt's stare, which was probing him.

It took Matt a second to collect himself and answer. "Yeah, I'm sure. Why?"

"Well..." Jonathan mixed a spoonful of honey into his steaming cup. "The fence is all fixed, but all the cows were on the wrong side."

_Oops_.

Martha concealed a smile behind her cup.

The corner of Matt's lips twitched. "Maybe one of the hands got turned around," he said lightly.

"Maybe." Jonathan sounded doubtful.

Clark watched him as he made a show of stirring his coffee and taking an appraising sip. His brown eyes rested on Clark over the rim of his cup. Clark jerked up his chin.

"So," Jonathan said, "when did you and Matt become buddies?"

"Jonathan," Martha chided softly, just as Matt said, "Dad!"

"Who told you we're buddies?" Clark retorted, ignoring everyone but Jonathan. He felt a sharp, bitter elation -- this was something familiar, finally, a situation where he knew exactly what to say and how to act. He was back in control.

Jonathan raised his eyebrows at the question. "You're the one who's helping him with his homework."

"Yeah, I am." Clark gave him a razor-sharp smile. "I'm also the bastard who's beating him up at school."

The following silence was interrupted only by Matt's groan. Jonathan's expression became hard as stone. Martha looked scandalized.

Then Jonathan slammed down his cup so hard that coffee splashed all over the table. "Get out of this house."

Still smiling, Clark got up with vexing slowness. "I'm surprised it took you so long," he taunted. He made a show of sauntering into the living room -- two could play _that_ game -- picked up his backpack, and walked out, slamming the door shut.

It creaked open again behind him.

"Clark, wait," Matt said.

"Leave him alone, son!" Jonathan called from within the house.

"Yeah, leave me alone," Clark hissed, spinning to face him.

Matt was standing in the doorway. His expression was a blend of confusion and hurt, loud to the point of comical, but Clark didn't feel like laughing.

"You don't have to do this," Matt said quietly. "I know this is hard --"

"You know nothing, okay?" Clark snapped. He brushed a hand over his eyes, which were burning alarmingly. _Not yet, dammit_. He blinked rapidly. Matt was still waiting in the doorway. "Just stop wearing those stupid shirts," Clark grumbled. _And I'll stop beating you up_.

He made his way behind the barn, where no one could see him.

"Clark!" Matt called after him.

But he was already super-speeding away.

. 

:: To be continued ::


	12. Warmer

Author's Note: About time, isn't it? Please give a huge welcome to my loyal-reader-turned-beta, Tigger101, who has already saved me from making two -- count them, two -- gross character violations. If it weren't for her, Chloe would have probably clawed her way out of my hard-drive to kick my butt. Thanks for lending me your insight, Tigger101! It's a great help, and a wonderful learning experience.

And now, on to the story...

.

* * *

. 

Chapter Twelve: Warmer

Chloe Sullivan wove her way through the teeming hallways of Smallville High, blocking out the omnipresent melee. School gossip was small change compared to the story she'd landed yesterday. That story... Oh, it's been long since she'd nailed something _that_ hot. She was still thinking of a title that would do it justice. Maybe "Killing Under The Influence", or "Hit and Ruin", or --

The sight of a headful of close-cropped black curls infiltrated her reverie.

"Pete!" she called out, waving over the shoulder of a jock. She slipped between the muscle-block and his girlfriend, ignoring their scathing stares (which they could give but not spell, so why bother?), and came out at Pete's side.

"Chloe, my girl!" He turned to her with a smile that made her forgive the "my girl" part. She loved the exotic contrast of his white teeth and dark skin.

"Hi, Pete. Got a second?"

"For you? A lifetime." He wriggled his eyebrows in a way that made her laugh.

"You're impossible, you." She resisted the urge to tug on his arm. "Come on."

"Where to?"

"The Torch." He seemed unimpressed, so Chloe leaned in and whispered in his ear, "I have a scoop."

This made him shudder, though she doubted it had anything to do with the news. His voice sounded a little husky when he said, "We've got History in five minutes."

"Come on, Pete." Now she did tug on his arm. "Don't you prefer reporting History rather than reading it?"

He grinned and finally let her stir him away. "Man, if I didn't know better, I'd say you're angry for being out-scooped on the Punic Wars."

"Ha ha." Chloe gave him a look. "Besides, my story is better than those puny wars."

"Did you crack the Keller case?" Pete said with twinkling eyes.

"Not here," Chloe hushed him. His words had sent a trill of excitement down her spine. _Cracked it? More like smashed it to smithereens. _They reached the Torch's door, and Chloe tried to unlock it, but the handle turned in her hand without resistance. Could she have been that tired last evening?

"Okay," Pete said once he was seated on the corner of his desk. "Spill, Sherlock."

Chloe took a deep breath and tried to put her zipping thoughts to order. "Yesterday, after my _trusty _news team all pulled the vanishing act on me..."

Pete held out his hands, palms up. "Had to help dad at the factory."

"I know, I know." _And just where had Matt gone off to?_ "Anyway, I stayed to do some digging. I talked to Justin --"

Pete opened his mouth to protest --

"-- about his accident," Chloe loudly forestalled him. "He gave me a partial plate number of the car that ran him down."

Pete's mouth clicked shut.

Chloe shook her head. "So then I called contact at the DMV, and guess what?" She pressed her lips on a smug grin.

"I know that cat-got-the-canary look," Pete said. "You got a match."

The grin broke out widely on her face. "I got a match," she said, walking over to the printer. "Feast your eyes on --" The smile slipped off her lips -- "this..." She stared at the empty printer tray, then looked up at Pete. "Have you been here earlier?"

He shook his head, looking as perplexed as she felt.

"Oh." Chloe shrugged it away. "Hold on, I'll print out another copy."

She was reaching for her computer's power switch when she glimpsed the soft blue radiance of the optical mouse. The monitor's standby light was blinking. Now that she strained her ears, she heard a soft hum coming from the PC. Chloe nudged the mouse, and the monitor woke to life with a crackle, displaying her desktop. The static electricity seemed to spider down her spine.

"Pete..."

He was already by her side, and his warm hand on her shoulder helped dispel some of her anxiety.

"Any chance you forgot to shut it down yesterday?" he said.

Chloe gave him a you-know-better look, at which his face sobered.

She checked the directory listing of her documents, fighting a growing sense of violation. "Someone erased my files on Justin and Keller."

"Are you sure?" Pete said.

"Yes, I'm sure." Chloe called up her email client. The blank welcome screen greeted her like a kick in the guts. "Dammit! My mail is all gone."

"So who do you think..."

Their eyes met, and Chloe knew exactly who they were thinking of: Keller.

"You shouldn't have threatened him, Chloe." Pete drew closer to her, and she indulged herself in appreciating the protective gesture. "He must have thought you have something on him."

"And I do, Pete, that's just the point --"

The door opened with a sudden exhale of air, making the papers on the desks flutter. Chloe jumped, but it was only Matt. There was a wild troubled look on his face.

"Hey, guys," he said. "Did you see Keller this morning?"

Chloe exchanged a glance with Pete.

"No, why?" Pete said, but his casualness sounded strained.

Matt turned aside and pounded his fist against the doorframe. The ferocity of the action startled Chloe.

"Not that it's my business..." she said hesitantly. _Well, actually, it is._ "But why exactly are you looking for Keller?"

Matt looked surprised. He began to speak and changed his mind. Instead he made a vague brushing-off gesture. "Long story."

Chloe crossed her arms. "Well, seeing as you owe me a nice, long article for the upcoming issue..."

"Oh, that." Guilt flickered on Matt's face. "Look, um... I'll turn it in later, okay? I have to go."

"Matt!" she called after him.

He lingered in the doorway. For a second, Chloe's exasperation with his lack of journalistic commitment swelled into something darker. _But he wouldn't... would he?_

"Have you been to the Torch last night?" she blurted out.

"Chloe," Pete chided. But he fell silent when Matt shuffled his feet, flushing.

"I forgot my bag here," Matt mumbled.

On her right, Pete intervened again. "Chloe, you don't think Matt --"

"I don't know, Pete." She found it hard to believe, but someone had touched her private files, and the violation hurt her more than she was willing to admit.

"Someone went through Chloe's stuff last night," Pete explained to Matt.

The way Matt's eyes widened, first in surprise and then in hurt, convinced Chloe he'd known nothing about it. "Not that I was blaming you," she said quickly, feeling a telltale heat rising in her cheeks. "I was just wondering if maybe you saw someone else around."

"As a matter of fact, I did." Matt's features softened in sympathy. "I don't know who he was, though, it was all dark."

Pete beat Chloe to the next question: "But did he look anything like Keller?"

The transformation from sympathy to anger in Matt's face was stunning. "Leave Keller out of this," he said.

"Whoa, what's gotten into you?" Pete said.

Matt made an impatient gesture. "Never mind. I'll see you later, okay?"

The look Chloe exchanged with Pete this time was bewildered.

"Well, that was a wall-of-the-weird moment," she said. _One more story to follow up on..._

"Tell me about it. The way things are going, you're gonna have to ask principal Reynolds for a new wall."

Chloe glanced at the precious collection of clippings. "Why do I get a feeling I should pin up a picture of Clark Keller smack in the middle of that wall?"

"Go ahead. I'll bring the darts." Pete's grin gave way to a furrow as his gaze came to rest on the empty printer tray. "One thing I don't get, though. Why would Keller care about your files on Justin?"

Chloe could have screamed with frustration. "That's what I've been trying to tell you all morning! That match I got? Pete, the car that ran down Justin belongs to Marshal Keller!"

She watched breathlessly as emotions chased each other on his dark face: surprise, comprehension, and finally worry. "Chloe, this is serious stuff."

"Don't you think I know that? That man left Justin to die and walked away without so much as a warning. Justice isn't just blind, it's also deaf and catatonic."

"We have to go to the police."

She'd expected this and had her answer ready. "We can't, Pete. Even if we had all the evidence --" she grimaced at her computer -- "it's still all circumstantial."

Pete was eyeing her suspiciously. "Just what are you suggesting?"

She had that answer ready, too. "An expose," she said excitedly, ignoring his violent shake of the head. "We print it on the front page of the Torch, maybe even land the Ledger. If we get the public pressing for an official investigation --"

"No, no, no, _no_. Chloe, Keller will tear us apart! Forget about libel, this is plain suicide."

Chloe gave Pete her most earnest stare, trying to infuse him with her fervor, trying to burn through his obvious concern. But she knew how stubborn he could be, and right then, his face was all set.

"Well, _I'm_ not going to let that stop me," she said, moving around him and taking her seat in front of her computer. "And I'm sure Matt would have agreed."

"Yeah, well, Matt's been acting crazy lately." Pete dragged his chair over to her side. "And I didn't say I'm letting it stop me. It's just... This is serious."

Chloe pursed her lips on a smile, but didn't push Pete further. Her fingers danced on the keyboard, coaxing out the elusive information that had survived the attack. The silence in the room was the sound of Pete climbing down from his tree.

He sighed with annoyance, which meant he'd probably reached the ground. "So which of the Kellers was it, Senior or Junior?" he said.

"I'm not sure." Chloe's quick rapport with the mail server produced the backup file of her recent emails. She scanned the list and called up the ones from the DMV. "Here. Remember I told you Marshal has a history of DUI? Check out the date on this one."

Pete peered at the screen. "That's about half a year ago."

"Five months," Chloe corrected him. "The exact night of Justin's accident."

"So it's Senior."

Chloe tipped her head, allowing but not committing. "The blood tests came out fine and the charges were dropped," she noted.

Pete shrugged. "So he was mostly sober..."

"Yeah, same like mostly harmless," Chloe said. "But check this one out. Same date, later that night. Charged for driving without a driver's license."

"Wow," Pete said softly. "So it was Junior. It wasn't their night with the law, was it?"

"Two charges in one night? Probably not." Chloe drummed her fingers on the keyboard. "On the other hand, Marshal got out clear, and Clark only got a warning."

"Lucky bastards. So which one...?"

Chloe shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. What I want to know is how come they got off the police's hook so easily. And look at this." She displayed both files simultaneously and used the mouse to highlight the signed officer.

"It's the same man," Pete said with a frown. "Coincidence?"

Chloe raised an eyebrow. "With Smallville's history? You can probably trace Justin's accident to the meteor shower --"

"Oh, damn," Pete said suddenly and got up. "History."

"Class?"

"No, us, if we don't go now. C'mon. We'll work on the story later."

Chloe gave her computer screen a longing look. "You go ahead, I'll catch up."

"Okay." Pete brushed a kiss on her cheek. "See you in class."

But Chloe quickly realized she had no inclination to go there. What they needed was cold, hard evidence, and she doubted Hannibal and his elephants could help her there. But she knew someone who could.

Chloe was never averse to badgering teachers in their office when the need arose, but this specific office -- and its occupant -- made her hesitate. She took a quick breath, hitched up her sharpest reporter look, and knocked briskly on the door.

"Come in," came the distracted answer.

Chloe opened the door a crack and peered inside. The stern old Physics teacher was sitting at his desk, pouring over some papers.

"Mr. Bailey. Can I have a moment of your time?"

"I've already approved your entrance," he said without looking up.

Chloe entered the room and shut the door behind her. He didn't invite her to sit -- in fact, he was completely ignoring her -- so she took the initiative, as well as the chair opposite his desk. Every story she'd heard about the weird Physics teacher resurfaced in her mind. She stamped them all down.

He was still absorbed in his papers. Chloe caught sight of a strange diagram made of concentric circles, upon which a four-year-old seemed to have sketched a semblance of a sun with jagged rays. The diagram was accompanied by a multi-line graph that looked like a dead spider. She wondered what was so interesting in them. Then she glimpsed the initials 'CK' at the top of the page.

"That looks intriguing," she said, hoping to draw him out.

Mr. Bailey finally looked up at her, and his flint-sharp eyes narrowed. "So it is, Miss Sullivan. Are you familiar with the dendritic density of retinal ganglion cells?"

"Um -- not really." She had a feeling his stare cut straight through her pretense. "Actually, I'm doing a little survey among the staff, and I was hoping you could help me."

There was an unmoving quality in his face that only accented small moves. The upward curve of his lips, so subtle she could have easily missed it, struck her like an outright sneer. Now that she'd tore him from his papers, his grayish eyes remained fixed on her face with unsettling intensity. She resisted the temptation to shake her head. _Concentrate, Chloe_.

"Go on," Mr. Bailey said.

Chloe arranged her notepad on her knees and clicked her pen. _God, I wish I'd rehearsed this_. "I came across an article that expressed concern over the rising level of violence in schools over the US," she improvised. "I'm working on a local follow-up. Do you feel the concern is justified?"

He tipped his head slightly. "I'm familiar with the phenomenon," he allowed.

Chloe almost sighed with relief. "Have you ever had any personal experience with violence at this school?"

"Define personal experience."

"You know, inappropriate behavior... Students demanding higher grades or special privileges in your class..." _Blackmail... Threats... _She felt like she was pushing it already. "Of course," she added quickly, "this is completely anonymous."

"Of course," he repeated dryly. Was he mocking her? "However, as I'm sure you know, my elasticity to pranks of that sort is very low. Therefore, I must answer your question in the negative. Is that all?"

She knew she was being dismissed, but she refused to give up. "If you witnessed an act of violence by some student against another, what would you do?"

"What is every teacher's duty. I would intervene if necessary, and inform Mr. Reynolds."

Chloe stifled a thrill of excitement. _Got you... Just a little more..._ "So you wouldn't feel hesitant to interfere in a situation that's potentially dangerous?"

"I hope not." Those narrowed flint-like eyes were drilling into her. "What are you striving at, Miss Sullivan?"

_Now._ "You know Josh Miller? He's the jock that Clark Keller knocked down just outside your classroom, in front of at least six witnesses, including you. You didn't do anything about it."

"There was no need for intervention," Mr. Bailey said coldly. "The incident was contained."

"Except that three hours later, Whitney ended up in hospital with a concussion," Chloe said angrily.

"The two events were unrelated."

But was that a flicker of doubt in the teacher's eyes? Chloe pressed the attack. "How can you say that? If you had stopped Keller the first time, he would never have --"

"Miss Sullivan, that is enough."

She bit back her impatience. There was definitely some emotion in those hard eyes. Was it fear? "Mr. Bailey, if Keller is threatening you in any way --"

"That is enough!"

Chloe jumped in her seat. She'd never heard the Physics teacher raise his voice like that, had never seen his face darken with anger. What was wrong with people today?

He made a visible effort to compose himself. "You will leave this office now, Miss Sullivan, and you will leave Mr. Keller alone."

Chloe's jaw all but dropped. "Why is everyone saying that today?"

"Because," Mr. Bailey began but stopped short, frowning. Chloe hadn't really expected an answer, and she suspected that neither had he. Finally he said, "You cannot begin to imagine the pressures working on that young man right now. Please don't add to them. Even ADNRs can be broken."

"ADN-what?"

"Aggregated diamond nanorods, Miss Sullivan. Goodbye."

There was no arguing with him this time; the silvered head had already bowed over the crazy sun-and-spider diagram. Chloe picked up her things and left the office. _So much for solid evidence._

She was so frustrated that she walked right into someone in the hallway, and her notepad and pen clattered to the floor.

"Sorry," she said, just as a familiar, cultured voice said, "Excuse me."

She looked up with surprise at the young man. "Mr. Luthor!" Her reporter senses kicked back into high gear. "What brings you to Smallville High?"

Lex Luthor gave her an appraising look, then smiled. "Chloe, isn't it?"

_God, a billionaire remembers my name_. "Yeah, it is. How are you doing?" _I did_ not _just ask him that_. "I mean, after the accident and everything."

Did she imagine it, or did his smile become colder? There was no sign of it in his voice when he spoke. "I'm fine, thank you. I believe I didn't thank you for your help in identifying that schoolbag."

"Oh, that. No problem." It reminded Chloe of the owner of that bag, who seemed to be causing her trouble all morning despite his conspicuous absence. "I guess we should all be grateful Clark Keller was there."

Luthor's brow creased. "Actually, I'm not so sure about that."

Chloe's guts tingled in a way that suggested a new story. _If they keep cropping up, I'll need a staff the size of our football team!_ "What do you mean?"

But whatever the billionaire really meant was safe behind the slight pursing of his lips. Even before he spoke, Chloe knew he was parrying.

"Just that there's a great deal of violence associated with that boy," he said. "Wouldn't you agree, Miss Sullivan?"

Chloe nodded silently. Luthor's words echoed her conversation with Mr. Bailey, but with a strange twist of roles which left her uneasy.

The young billionaire gave her a brief smile. "Leave Clark --"

"I know, I know," she cut him off exasperatedly. "Leave Clark Keller alone."

He raised his eyebrows, a gesture stressed by his baldness. "I was about to say, leave Clark Keller to me."

"Oh." _As if. And what's that all about?_

He gave her a half-bow of his head, and Chloe realized she'd been dismissed, again. She watched him walking away down the empty hallway, dressed in his four-figures black suit, and thought of a panther in a playground. The image made her shudder. How did Lex Luthor fit into this mess?

Only one way to find out.

She gave him a decent head start -- somehow, she doubted Lex Luthor suffered people to pry into his business -- and followed him. She was hardly surprised when she ended up at the principal's office. The closed door, on the other hand, stumped her.

_Now what?_

She couldn't ease the door open without being caught. Chloe loitered innocently nearby and tried to intercept the occasional word, but whatever noises reached her ears were muffled beyond discern. It must have been a hushed conversation. She could hardly imagine Luthor losing his composure and shouting out his intentions. But wait, was that principal Reynolds's voice, rising in anger?

"With all due respect, Mr. Luthor --"

Someone cleared his throat just behind her, and Chloe jumped guiltily. Mr. Bailey was regarding her with disapproving eyes. She'd been so concentrated on her attempted eavesdropping that she'd forgotten her cover. _Some reporter I am._

"I, uh, wanted a word with the principal," she said quickly, trying to will away the heat from her cheeks. "About my article, you know."

The Physics teacher only looked at her for the longest of moments. His eyes were unreadable. He showed no intention of going away.

Chloe couldn't hover next to the door with him watching, and she couldn't just leave, on account of her improvised excuse. She waited a decent distance from the door and curbed the temptation to tap her foot. _I should have gone to that History class. I bet I could have gotten better clues out of Hannibal._

The principal's door opened suddenly, and out came Lex Luthor. He seemed collected and content. Principal Reynolds was neither, judging by a quick glance into the office. She wondered if she should go in just now.

Mr. Bailey made the decision for her. "If you'll excuse me, Miss Sullivan, I have to see the principal about something urgent."

"Oh, sure." _Finally, something is going right._ "I can interview him later."

But before either of them could move, principal Reynolds's phone had rung loudly. Chloe heard him snarling into the mouthpiece, and expected to hear it slam down again. It didn't. The ensuing silence riveted Chloe to place, and seemed to last forever. When Chloe peered into Reynolds's office again, he looked grim and tired. He was still on the phone.

The principal's eyes found and dismissed her, then lingered on the Physics teacher.

"One moment," he said and covered the mouthpiece with his palm. "Evan, have you seen Clark Keller today?"

Hardly daring to breathe, Chloe glanced at the Physics teacher. The old man was as unreadable as ever.

"I'm afraid not," he said. "Who's asking?"

"The police." The principal brushed his free hand over his eyes. "There's been an... incident... at the Keller residence."

. 

:: To be continued ::


	13. Break

Author's Note: Alright, I know, I'm terrible. For the record: This story is not dead, though the writer is slowly getting there. I've been keeping you waiting for this chapter for ages, and it's a short one (though important), so I hope you won't be disappointed... The only thing I can say in my defense is, if I had written a list of the tasks I have to complete every week, it would have been longer than this chap :-)

Again thanks to my beta, Tigger101, for helping me clarify things, packing a stronger emotional punch, and saving me from another character-related faux-pas.

So without further ado...

* * *

. 

Chapter Thirteen: Break

Clark's burst of super-speed petered out when he realized he had no idea where he was running. He'd reached a small forest near by the Kent's farm, and he was trudging on out of sheer inertia, trying to think of a place to go.

School was out of question. True, he was curious to hear Bailey's opinion about the essay he'd written the evening before, but that alone wasn't enough to draw him there. The very thought of stupid classes, or Matthew Kent, or worse, that Sullivan girl, made school the last place on Earth he wanted to be.

Well, one before the last. The last place on Earth would be the hellhole that Marshal used to call Home. That was also out of the question.

Where to, then?

Clark stopped in the middle of the forest and gazed around. _This is ridiculous_. As far as he knew, he was the fastest man on Earth; he could get anywhere in the US within minutes. Every road was open to him, but there was nothing and no-one down those roads that made the journey worthwhile. The fastest man alive, grounded by the futility of it all. _Ridiculous_.

He chose a sturdy tree and sat down next to it, resting his back against its coarse bark. This forest was as good a place as any. At least it was quiet here.

The tranquility only served to emphasize the uproar of his thoughts. What had gotten into him? Everything had gone well enough until he'd upped and ruined it. Another burned bridge. Scorched earth, Clark remembered suddenly, was often a last-resort, self-destructive strategy.

But it had felt right. Deep down, he knew exactly why he'd provoked Jonathan Kent. Provoking people was the easiest way to control them. True, it usually led to painful results -- especially with Marshal -- but at least it was a result which Clark had caused, not something whimsical and unfair. It was almost comforting.

He felt far from comforted as he sat alone in the middle of that godforsaken forest.

It was Marshal's fault, all of it. The morning events had proved that Clark would never have a normal life. Not that he was normal, but some secret part in him had always hoped he could pass for one. Until now. Funny, he'd never realized just how thoroughly fucked up he was. And it was Marshal who'd done this to him, with his sick fits of violence and twisted power games --

A torrent of heat burst from Clark's eyes and struck a tree opposite him. Clark panicked. He couldn't see past the red haze that filled his vision, couldn't close his eyes, didn't dare to shift his stare. Something cracked like a whip and then creaked, a terrible sound that grated on his nerve endings. Impulsively, Clark thrust his hands before his eyes. God, it hurt. He snatched his hands away. His tears turned to vapor as soon as they touched his eyes --

The torrent of heat stopped. A soothing chill welled in Clark's eyes, and slowly his vision cleared. He watched aghast as the tall pine in front of him creaked one last time and toppled sideways, doubling over the smoking wound in its side. It struck the ground with a sound like a thunder. Clark shuddered.

_Who am I kidding? Marshal did nothing to me, I was born this way. That's what he'd been trying to tell me all these years. _The realization hurt. For a brief, crazy moment he wondered: If a soul shatters in the forest and nobody hears it, does it still make a noise?

The moment passed. Clark pushed himself to his feet. The forest was no longer tranquil, and the stench of burned wood made him sick. He ran the fingers of one hand against the palm of the other. The skin was smooth and unmarked; if he had burned his hands, they had already healed. Among his curses, what a wasted gift. If only he could transform it to his mom.

God, Linda.

He'd forgotten how badly she was hurt. It was her new bruises that had made him confront Marshal in the first place, but then, in his desperate escape from Marshal's wrath, he'd forgotten all about her injuries. Clark clenched his teeth and hated himself a little more. What had he done? As soon as Marshal discovered that Clark was gone, he would take it out on Linda. Had he already found out? Had he hurt her again?

It took the fastest man on Earth thirty seconds to get to central Smallville, thirty goddamned eternal seconds. As Clark ran, only one wish played over and over in his mind: that Marshal had left him for dead in the Green Room, and had never checked up on him since.

He stopped when he reached the far end of the street where they lived, and it took him a moment to figure out why. People. The street was crawling with people, all around their house. Clark spotted a couple of police cars. The sounds -- a fusion of angry murmurs, shouts, and sirens -- caught up with him like a blow to the chest.

_Too late, I'm too late..._

He closed the distance and mingled with the people at the back of the crowd, keeping out of the policemen's sight. People pressed on either side of him, making it difficult to breathe. Clark felt dizzy. He peered over shoulders and heads, trying to make sense of the confused scene. The policemen stood in a knot in front of the house. He couldn't see his mother or his old man anywhere. Fear weighed heavily on the air.

"It's Clark Keller," someone said beside him, and the murmur spread throughout the crowd: "It's Clark Keller."

People shifted, and suddenly Clark found himself standing in a small island of solitude amidst the churning crowd. Some of the policemen were looking his way now, and a hush fell over the people. Clark's every nerve ending called him to flee.

Then he heard a horrible wail, a sound that had haunted his nightmares for years.

His mom was crying.

Clark cut through the crowd, pushing aside the people that didn't make way quickly enough. He circumvented the knot of officers and stopped short in front of the house. Linda was standing there, lonely and forlorn, sobbing into her hands. She looked broken and bruised and ever so frail, and Clark felt his heart lodge in his throat. _My fault. I should never have left her._ He wanted to go to her, but guilt kept him rooted to the spot.

For a moment, the hush was disturbed only by her whimpers and his labored breath. Then Linda looked up and saw him.

"You!" Her scream was furious and shrill, and Clark stumbled back in surprise. "How could you do this? He was your father, damn you! I loved him!"

The anger -- no, hatred -- in Linda's red-rimmed eyes struck Clark to the core of his soul. He had no idea what she was talking about. The sound of his own breath sowed in his ears, drowning out all other noise. As if in a nightmare, he saw his mom was still screaming at him, but he couldn't hear her words.

Slowly, gradually, he realized that all her bruises were a day old. Nothing had happened to her since. The police must have come for some other reason. He looked around in a daze. The garage door was open and marked off-limits by yellow tape. His old man's car was parked deep inside.

Not parked. Crashed.

Someone had driven the car straight into the back wall of the garage, so that the entire hood had crumpled inward. Had Marshal lost control of the vehicle? No, there was Marshal, outside the car... interlocked with the car... pinned between the car and the wall, his lower body trapped and crushed, his upper body sprawled over the twisted metal. His head was turned sideways; his month hung open in a mute scream, and his terrible cold blue eyes stared blankly at Clark.

Dead. He was dead.

Clark staggered backwards, gazing at the grotesque body and fighting for air.

Once upon a time, Marshal had flung a laughing child high into the air and caught him in a swirling hug.

Once upon a time Marshal had almost beaten him to death.

Had taken him and mom to a magical night of movies in Metropolis.

Had left mom in a pool of her own blood in the kitchen.

Had taken them on a day-long picnic to celebrate his new job.

Had broken Linda's jaw when he'd lost the job.

Had fallen before an angry child's attack.

Had made Clark steal.

Had apologized on his knees, over and over again, to a crying Linda.

And then struck her again.

Had promised to change.

And never had.

Once upon a time...

_It should have been me_, Clark thought, though he didn't know which: the one who was lying dead in the garage, or the one who'd killed Marshal. _It should have been me_.

He turned from the scene in the garage, and his eyes were drawn to Linda. She was still crying.

"Mom!" He moved towards her, but she scrambled backwards. Two policemen came between them. Clark shoved past them, reaching out to Linda. She reached back, or so he thought, but before their hands touched, a wave of sickness rolled over Clark. He realized that Linda was clutching a piece of meteor rock in her outstretched fist.

"Stay away from me!" she shrieked. "Murderer!"

The two policemen were shoving him back, and Clark, dazed, allowed them to. "Mom, I didn't!" he called over the barrier of their arms. "I didn't! It wasn't me!"

But she was sobbing so hard that he doubted she heard. She cried for Marshal like she'd never cried for Clark or for herself, and suddenly Clark hated her and hated himself for hating her.

He shook off the two policemen and staggered away. The ground wobbled under his feet. Clark fell to his knees and threw up. He couldn't breathe. Rough hands dragged him up and twisted his arms behind his back, and he found himself surrounded by officers. He let them jostle him this way and that.

"Clark Keller, you're under arrest for the murder of Marshal Keller," one of them said.

Another one said something about last night and between the hours. It was some sort of a question. Clark couldn't string the words together.

From the crowd, a white flash caught his eye. It came from a camera, and when the hand that was holding it came down, he saw the appalled face of Chloe Sullivan. He saw other faces: Reynolds's, with its usual disapproval. Luthor's, hard as granite. Faces of people he didn't even know, all around him. Cold. Hostile. Accusing. Everything and everyone had turned against him. Every stare struck Clark like a hammer-blow, and worst of all was the cold-eyed, empty gaze of Marshal Keller.

Darkness crowded in on Clark's vision, spiraling inward and drowning out the world. The angry sounds around him melted into one long, incoherent growl. Somehow he must have fallen down a chute, and now the walls were crumbling down on him. The thought didn't scare him. Perhaps in darkness he'd find comfort at last.

Then a familiar, clear voice tore through the white noise, a voice which held the walls from falling in.

"Wait!" the voice called. "You're making a mistake! He was with me last night, I can vouch for him!"

Clark raised his head, blinking, and looked straight into the very pale face of Matthew Kent.

. 

:: To be continued ::


End file.
